


In All of Time and Space

by besidemethewholedamntime



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eyes meet across a crowded room, F/M, Family Fluff, Future Fic, Kind of happy ending, Near Future, adopting pets, collections of drabbles, happiness, tw: miscarriage (chapter 5)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:10:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10938603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besidemethewholedamntime/pseuds/besidemethewholedamntime
Summary: Just a collection of drabbles/prompts from Tumblr to be kept in one neat and tidy space. Not all necessarily related.





	1. The Cosmos

**Author's Note:**

> So here are my collection of drabbles and prompts and things. Some of these were written before the Framework storyline so they don't follow the storyline at all but I think they're still okay.I hope you like them and I hope this works - I'm still a bit new at Ao3. I originally come from fanfiction.net so it's a bit of adjustment.   
> Sorry to be a bore and on with the show!

She can’t look at him for the first week of them being truly _back._

There’s always the excuse of working; ensuring the new lab is being built to her specifications, seeing that May’s team of doctors is following the recovery programme she designed specifically or working on the new treatment that helps to treat muscle atrophy faster.  Then there’s the excuse of physiotherapy to help with her injured leg and after that, she uses the excuse of the gym. Then, to justify not going to their room at night, she uses the excuse that she fell asleep in the lab accidentally after working on her new projects when really, she’s falling asleep in a cupboard with the door locked so nobody can find her.

It’s extreme, but she’ll do anything to ensure that she doesn’t have to look in his eyes and be reminded of the fact that she killed him.

It’s day eight when he catches her in their room and she gets away with it no longer.

 She’s getting grabbing some of her notes, absolutely sure he’d gone to the gym with Mack, when the door opens and, startled, she jumps and spins around and finds herself eye to eye with her boyfriend that she murdered.

“Jemma,” he begins softly. “What’s going on? You’ve been avoiding me for days.”

The hurt in his voice and the unshed tears in his eyes gets to her. She would tell him, but she can’t bring herself to utter the words. How do you tell the man you love that you didn’t even notice he wasn’t himself until you convinced him to slit his wrists before he stabbed you in the leg, hooked you up to some machine that read your brain then you dumped a  load of metal on him before you slit his throat? Except it wasn’t him, it was an android but an android that had his touch and his voice and his eyes that hurt you, even when you were hurting it.

“I… I…” She flounders, because she’s drowning and why can’t he see that? Except she doesn’t want to let him know. She doesn’t want to tell him that the two things that haunt her nightmares are Android Fitz and her stabbing Android Fitz. Except sometimes it’s not Android Fitz but real Fitz, _her Fitz_ and she’s covered in his blood and she’s killed him and he’s dead, no matter how much she never meant to.

She must protect him. She can’t protect him from the Framework version on himself and all that happened in there, but she can protect him from this. Protect _them_ from this. She can protect him from the knowledge that he was the one who hurt her, even when she begged him not to, and she can protect him from the coldness of his robotic replacement and she can protect him from _ever_ knowing that is was her that put a stop to him in the coldest way possible, and how quick she was to do it.

She will protect him from all of this, even if it costs her own sanity in the process.

“Please tell me what’s wrong?” He almost pleads, sitting down carefully on the bed. She’s napped in it once when he was away ensuring the proper dismantling of the Framework apparatus, and it’s too new - all it does it remind her of this new life that they’ve fallen into. He keeps a safe distance from her, the way you do a scared animal. He knows that not to do to help her, and she absolutely loves him for it.

“Please, Fitz,” she whispers. “Please, leave it alone.”

“I can’t do that, Jemma. I can’t.” He’s shaking his head now with that sad smile that makes her heart hurt. It always has, ever since the first time she saw it when he was telling her about his dad.  “’Cause this always happens to me, to you, to us. The universe seems determined to keep us apart. It’s already tried once in the past few months, I won’t let it again. It’s my worst fear coming true again.”

This is what breaks her.

This is what causes her heart to cave in and her resolve to shatter. This is what causes the most painful w _ail_ to burst its way through her chest, up into her mouth and into the space between them. This is what causes her to sink to her knees and begin to sob into her hands. This is, after all these weeks of pain and anger and frustration, what finally causes Jemma Simmons to fall.

She doesn’t even notice Fitz moving towards her until his arms are around her and her face is pressed into his chest and he is whispering things into her hair. Then she feels his arms lifting her up and onto the bed where she sits, sobbing in his lap, and he is still whispering apologies into her hair while kissing her forehead once in a while and it only serves to make her cry harder because this is what Android Fitz did to her and she cries because she doesn’t want to think that even this is ruined forever.

Eventually, her sobs subside into small sniffles and she has the courage to look up at him, and properly _look_ into his eyes for the first time in forever. They’re so unique to him and she wonders how she never noticed before that _its_ eyes weren’t _his._

“What’s wrong, Jemma?” He asks with tears in his voice and he asks with such tenderness and care that no mad scientist could ever hope to replicate.

So she tells him. She tells him everything. Because in protecting him she’s hurting him more and that’s not what she wants to do. So she tells him and hopes and prays to whoever may be listening out there in the cosmos that he won’t blame himself and that they’ll work through this together.

After, they’re crying together, lying down on the bed forehead to forehead. She apologises for all of this – for killing him, He apologises for the thousandth time about his behaviour in the Framework. She tells him he always wondered if he would be an arsehole if she wasn’t there to keep him in check. He laughs and blames the cosmos and the universe and she does what she did months ago and kisses him to shut him up. They can’t waste any more time; not when so much has been stolen from them.

“I love you, Jemma Simmons. In any and every universe,” he tells her, his voice soft against her skin. _Home_ she thinks.

“I love you too, Fitz. On every planet,” she whispers, snuggling closer to him. They will not be broken by this – the will emerge stronger than ever.

The cosmos be dammed.


	2. Things You Said To Make Me Feel Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt on Tumblr donkey's years ago:
> 
> 'Things You Said To Make Me Feel Real' 
> 
> In which Fitz has trouble knowing what is real and what is now. Set during the Framework but AU for just about everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a lot of these drabbles were written during the Framework arc and I never posted them on here but I'm doing so now because I think I'd just like to have them somewhere. These are all AU now because now we know how it all played out. That being said, I hope you still enjoy these!

Things You Said That Made Me Feel Real

He doesn’t remember much of what happened.

He remembers Jemma leaving with Davidson to find AIDA. He remembers working on the computers. He remembers hearing footsteps and thinking that was an awfully quick time for them to be away. He remembers hearing a voice saying, “I’m sorry, Leopold.” He remembers the instant darkness.

And then he remembers nothing.

He doesn’t remember waking up in the Framework because it wasn’t any different to him there; it was just another day. He doesn’t remember feeling out of place in there as if everything was just _too_ shiny and perfect. He doesn’t remember how he came to be who he was in there, he just knows he _was._ He doesn’t remember the rise.

But he sure as hell remembers the fall.

He wishes he could forget, but the memory is actually bloody imprinted on his brain. He’d do anything to forget the look on Jemma’s face when he told her that he had no idea who she was. It was like her entire world had come crashing down and was now in flames around her feet. He remembers how it hurt his heart oh so much and he had no idea why. He remembers that – of course he bloody does; the feeling of looking at a stranger and in your soul knowing that you’ve known them all your life.

Sometimes he wonders about his replacement; did he feel real? Because the real Leopold Fitz doesn’t feel much of anything at the moment and he idly wonders if that’s part of being real – not feeling anything at all. It’s human to hurt, but AIDA could hurt. It’s human to cry, but he overheard Jemma mention that his LMD had welled up. It’s human to have desires, yet May’s LMD had the desire to get close to Coulson. But he wonders if it’s a uniquely human feeling to feel absolutely nothing and know you’re feeling it and to yearn for anything to fill that hole within yourself.

He remembers discovering that he wasn’t real, or at least this version of himself wasn’t real. It had come in crashing waves that fell over his mind and had expelled one word from his lips: _Jemma._

He doesn’t remember much of the fight to get home, but that’s because he’s tried to forget it. He knows that he leant on Jemma and that she leant on him too.

_“Jemma,” he whispers in her ear, “how do you know what’s you?”_

_She turns to him and allows her eyes to dance over him (and his stupid haircut). “What do you mean?”_

_“How do you know where this ends and where **you** begin? I’m not real, Jemma, I’m not **real.** ” The whispers become more hysterical and she quietens him with a kiss. She tastes like cherries and he knows this is a lie because his Jemma tastes like the ocean. _

_She smiles. “You aren’t, but neither am I. We’ll get home and you’ll know that you’re all **you** then. We’ll get home.”_

_“How do you know we’ll be the same? How do you know that I’ll be the real me? How will I know that home is real?”_

_She brings him close and their foreheads touch. “When I have a bruise on my head right here, and a knife wound in my leg and when I tell you that you taste like that candyfloss you snack on all the time, then we’re real.  Then we’re home.”_

Sometimes he’s still not sure. This doesn’t feel real but then before the glorified, hellish version of The Sims, he never had anything else to compare it too. He swore in _there_ that he was real as real could be and that turned out to be a lie. He needs to know if he’s alive; that his made up of cells with cytoplasm and ribosomes and DNA, not wires and fake syrupy blood that Jemma’s away still trying to scrub off her hands now. Because what if he’s another LMD? What if he’s like May and is unaware that he’s not real? He thinks surely not but after everything that’s happened he’s just not sure anymore.

Jemma comes to sit beside him and places a hand on his knee. They’re scrubbed red raw and bleeding in some places. He wants to hold them, to ask her what has she done, but he’s afraid he’s not real and he doesn’t want to hurt her more.

“Fitz,” she says gently. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know where I begin and where I end. I don’t know if I’m real or if I’m just another robot sent to hurt you all. _I don’t know._ ”

Almost instantly she tells him, “Look at me.” When he does he instantly notices how drained she is, how tired she looks and he opens his mouth to ask _did I do that to you?_ But she shushes him before he can.

“Fitz, I have a bruise right here,” she says gently, allowing him to touch it softly and quietly flinching when he brushes an especially tender area.

“And I have a knife wound right here.” He allows his fingers to fall to her leg and sees the white bandage through the rip in her jeans that is decorated with a red blossom.

Then she kisses him and it’s soft and slow and perfect. This is _his_ Jemma Simmons; she tastes right.

“And I’m telling you that you taste like that candyfloss that you always snack on,” she murmurs, her eyes fluttering closed and her hands gripping on to his shirt. He barely hears her whisper.

“We’re _real._ ”

Her brings her close to him and encircles her with her arms. She’s drifting off to sleep so he kisses her atop of her messy hair and finishes for her.

“We’re _home._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. All So Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of healing after everything. Fs + 'Not now'. Prompt from tumblr. AU now but still cute and soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Importing these from Tumblr just so they're all in one place in case anybody should want to read them. I realise they are AU now but still enjoyable!

The world is quiet when Jemma slips out from underneath Fitz’s arm and pads down the corridor to the living room. Moonlight sneaks underneath the curtains and casts the room with a ghostly glow. She shivers in her thin pyjamas, even though it isn’t cold. In fact, it’s actually quite a pleasant night. She opens the curtains to get a better look at the stars.

Night. She used to love it. The stars were a comfort and reminded her of moments with her father after painful scoliosis surgery, his attempt to stop her thinking about the metal rods inserted into her spine – a surgery which she had been able to describe with painful accuracy which had terrified her parents to no end. Even after Maveth, the planet of death, the stars were not so bad. Yes, on the planet with no sun, they became rather terrifying but it was still okay because of  _after._ The dead planet dampened the magic a little, but it didn’t take it away.

No. It was the second stint in space which ruined it. She can’t quite fathom in her head why. Comparing the second time to the first, objectively it was…  _better,_ if one could say that. She wasn’t starving and running for her life, there was no Hive to be afraid of… and yet it was so much worse. Because she wasn’t alone but she was. She was captured and she was  _deaf_ and a slave to the most narcissistic sociopath that could possibly exist. She was in the future, and Fitz wasn’t, and the world had ended. As much as she hates remembering, there was at least a hope on Maveth that Shield were coming, and that there was a home to go back to. But in space… with Kasisus, there had been no hope. Even if she had been able to get back to the team, there was nowhere for them to go. The world was dead.

Jemma hates the night now. Dislikes the dark. Detests the colour blue. Sometimes she wonders if the only reason she’s able to get to sleep is because Fitz is curled around her, holding on tightly, almost as if he’s afraid she’ll be stolen away from him during the night. She would laugh but it isn’t funny. They’ve been stolen away from each other so many times now; by oceans, by galaxies, by time. They’ve finally made it back to each other, and they’re both grimly determined to never leave each other ever again.

It hasn’t been that long since they’ve saved the world. Jemma wonders about this as she eases herself onto the sofa, relishing the way she sinks into it like a hug. It hasn’t been that long and yet here she and Fitz are: finally,  _finally_ in their apartment. They spend their days decorating and laughing and planning different versions of different weddings. Sometimes Daisy comes over and sits cross-legged on the floor with her laptop and spouts out random Scottish wedding venues and shows them doodles for what she wants her bridesmaids dress to look like. It’s nice, it’s lovely, but at the same time it doesn’t feel quite like  _them._ They have never had time to do this before. But the world is safe, for now, and so there is the time. While Shield is being rebuilt, while everyone is healing, they have the time.

“Jemma?” Fitz’s voice, though clouded with tiredness, has laces of panic intermingled.

“I’m in here,” she calls softly, feeling bad that she scared him. Perhaps one day they’ll grow out of this, but for the moment this is how it’s going to be when they wake up without the other. After everything, who could blame them?

She hears him breathe a sigh of relief, and watches as he appears in the doorway. His hair is sticking up ad odd angles, and the cardigan he has shoved on is inside out.

“You alright?”

“Mm.” A non-committal noise is all she can manage. He slides in to sit behind her and she relaxes back into his chest. His arms come around her and she feels better, tethered.

“God, I hate the dark,” he grumbles. She knows Fitz doesn’t hate the dark. He doesn’t love it – after working for Shield who could? – but he doesn’t hate it the same way she does. He’s trying to make her feel better. She loves him infinitely for it.

Jemma’s not entirely sure why she woke up. It might have been a nightmare, it might have been that she finds it hard to sleep for longer than five hours without waking up to make sure everything’s alright. All she knows is that one moment she was awake and she needed a walk. Even just to the living room. Walking makes her feel better. Sometimes she’ll go for a morning walk in the sun. She’s tired of running.

“Remember when the stars were beautiful?”  Is what she says.

“Yeah.” Fitz’s voice is a whisper across the back of her neck. “I remember.”

They used to go stargazing when they were at the Academy sometimes. They’d watch meteor showers too. It was their thing. She misses the magic of the stars, the endless wonder that they held. 

“Do you ever wish life was that simple again? That we hadn’t been through any of this.”

The way his arms hold her a little tighter betrays his worry and confusion at the question. There’s a beat before he answers. “Do I wish that we hadn’t had to go through all of this crap? Every day. But am I happy that we’re here, together? Absolutely.”

She hums in agreement. She’s beyond happy that they’re here together.

They sit like this for a few moments, relaxed in each other’s company, watching the stars through the window. They aren’t so scary when they’re together. In fact, it almost reminds her of the Academy.

“What’s up, Jemma?” He asks eventually, because he was always going to. She knew that. He wants to know if he can fix it; he wants to try. Her heart swells with love but she doesn’t have an answer for him.

“Not now, Fitz,” she says softly, and snuggles further into him. She feels a kiss be pressed to the top of her hair.

“Okay,” he whispers simply, kissing her once again. No questions.

“Thank you.” Jemma means it sincerely. This moment is enough. This moment is fixing it.

“How about we just… watch the stars?”

“Yes.” She smiles to herself. Rediscovering something that used to be so sacred between her and her best friend is just what she needs. Looking out of the window, they innocently twinkle at her in the inky black sky. Perhaps some day they shall be magical again. 

“Let’s just watch the stars.”

 

 

 


	4. Sing Me A Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz tries singing as a way to soothe his teething daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something I came up with randomly when my own gran singing this song that she used to sing to us when we were younger. She always used to sing it to us and I suppose I created a fic from that? It was written in 40 minutes but I hope you enjoy!

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s alright.”

Fitz bounces with his six-month-old daughter, cradling her gently against his chest. His words fall on deaf ears, and his daughter continues to cry mournfully into his shirt. Teething has begun in recent days and has been hard on Sarah and both of her parents.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he soothes, but his voice doesn’t sound convincing even to his own ears. He holds Sarah away from his chest; her cheeks are flushed and her impossibly blue eyes are wide and melancholy. His heart breaks in a strange way for whenever she cries it cuts somewhere deep inside of him.

S _he’s only teething,_ he reminds himself. _Everyone on the planet has gone through this and got through it, she’ll be fine._ The rational, non-father part of himself knows this. It’s the other part that doesn’t; the part of him that’s a father and cannot stand seeing his daughter hurt.

Wearily, he cradles Sarah to his chest again, and sits down in the rocking chair usually used for feeding. It’s been a long few days ever since her teeth had began appearing. Nothing has seemed to help: not the teething rings or the teething gels or even the special baby painkillers bought for especially for this event. Sarah is as stubborn as both of her parents, utterly refusing to be settled or comforted by things that Fitz is sure normal children would be.

_That’s what you get for having two parents who aren’t normal_ Fitz sighs. His daughter is the love of his life, apple of his eye and he would gladly die for her without a second’s hesitation. He adores her unique-ness that shows even at six months old; the way her eyes are infinite and seem to understand everything of what she sees, the way she smiles and the whole world gets brighter, the way she laughs like laughter has only just been discovered… but just for this one thing, Fitz thinks he wouldn’t mind if she was a little more… _average._

(Except that this is just his tired brain and of course he doesn’t mean it – he wouldn’t change Sarah for all the world, crying fits over milk teeth and all.)

Rocking back and forth softly, Fitz begins to hum a tune that comes so naturally to his mind in this state. A song his granny and his mum used to sing to him when he was small, when he was crying so much that he should barely hear them over his hiccups.

To his own surprise, he even begins to sing.

_Ally bally, ally bally bee,_ _  
Sittin' on yer mammy's knee_

Fitz isn’t even entirely sure how he’s remembered the words, it’s been so long since he’s heard them. Sarah’s sobs begin to quieten. He carries on:

_Greetin' for a wee bawbee,_ _  
Tae buy some Coulter's candy. _

Sarah’s cries are now only soft sniffles and he’s so amazed that four lines of a simple song his granny used to always sing have done what nothing else has been able to, that he doesn’t even hear Jemma come in until she says quietly:

“That was quite lovely. I haven’t heard you sing that song before.”

He grins up at her, happy to see her even though she’s only been working a few hours. “Didn’t even realise I’d remembered it.”

She comes over and kisses him a greeting, gently kissing her daughter also before sitting on the bed opposite him with a sigh that can only mean she’s had a hard time at work. Her smile, though tired, is still bright. Fitz could never tire of that smile.

“Where is it from?” Jemma asks in an almost-whisper.

He looks down to his chest and sees that Sarah’s eyes have begun to droop and her cheeks are no longer as flushed as they once were.

“Uh…” He thinks back on how he actually knows the song. “My granny used to sing it to me when I was younger. My mum too. I’d be crying til I was hiccupping and my granny would sit me on her knee and sing until I wasn’t crying anymore.” Looking down at his daughter, he smiles. “Must run in the family.”

Jemma’s eyes have taken on that soft look that comes with whenever they talk about his family. “That’s very sweet, Fitz. Your granny sounds adorable.”

“Aw yeah, she was the best. Looked after me a lot when I was young. My mum was working all the time, and before my dad left he was too,” He frowns, the mention of his father bringing a crease to his forehead. “I stayed with her a lot if mum was on night shift, and even if I wasn’t upset she’d always sing the song before I went to sleep.”

Now that he’s thinking about it, Fitz begins to remember a lot about those days when his mum was working all of the time and his dad never seemed to want him around, or his gran never wanted him around his dad he realises now. He remembers the way her house smelled like lavender and she always wore flower prints and always called him _honey._

“When was the last time you saw her?” Jemma asks softly, reaching over to squeeze the hand that isn’t supporting their daughter.

“I don’t even know,” Fitz whispers. When did tears appear in his eyes? “Haven’t been back in so long. I don’t even know what’s happened to her, if she’s…” he swallows, unable to say it. “If her and my mum are okay. I haven’t even phoned in so long cause so much was going on and now I can’t.” Fitz breathes deeply but slowly, not wanting to disturb Sarah who has fallen asleep on his chest. He blinks back the tears in his eyes and looks down at her. “I wonder what they’d think of us.” He beams at Jemma. “What they’d think of her.”

“I’m sure they’d be so _proud_ of you, Fitz,” Jemma whispers to him, fiercely but so full of love. “They’d be so proud to see the father you’ve become to our daughter.”

“Thanks, Jemma.” He loves her so much that it’s indescribable. And they have a _daughter._ Even after six months, he still hasn’t been able to get over the wonder of it all.

“As soon as we’re able we’ll go to Glasgow,” she says decisively.

“My granny would like that,” he says, deciding to be hopeful. “And mum, too.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll introduce them to Sarah and they’ll lover her just as much as we do.”

Fitz doesn’t think that anyone, apart from Jemma, could love his daughter as much as he does but he knows their love will come awfully close.

Sarah begins to stir against his chest, and soft mewling cries begin to emanate from her.

“Oh dear, are her teeth still giving her a hassle?” Jemma asks, her features rearranging into a look of worry.

“Yeah.” Fitz begins rocking gently once more. “She’s really not getting a break with it.”

“Perhaps your magical singing will help, Fitz,” Jemma teases. “It did work last time.”

He rolls his eyes but takes no notice and begins the song from the beginning. There are other verses, he’s sure, but his granny never sung them to him. She always only sang these lines, and it was always enough.

_Ally bally, ally bally bee,_

Almost at once, Sarah begins to quieten again.

“Well would you look at that,” Jemma comments, marvelled. “Our daughter must be the only person who does like your singing.”

_Sittin' on yer mammy's knee_

“At least my musical talents are appreciated by somebody,” he faux-grumbles.

  _Greetin' for a wee bawbee_

He thinks of his granny and what she would say if she saw him here with his wife and daughter now. He thinks that she’d be over them moon, ecstatic with how it’s all turned out. Fitz knows that he is, that he wouldn’t change any of it for anything.

_Tae buy some Coulter's candy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Please feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day!


	5. Slow It Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She doesn’t move at the sound of his voice, doesn’t give any indication that she’s even heard him. It’s late, almost midnight, and Fitz hopes that maybe, just maybe, she’s been able to fall asleep.   
> He gently tip-toes around to the bed so he can see her. Jemma’s not asleep; her red-rimmed eyes are open and staring blankly at the wall, barely blinking."  
> Fitzsimmons dealing with an unimaginable heartache.   
> (Warnings for miscarriage)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please heed the warnings!
> 
> This is for Fs + 'we'll make it through this together'. It's sad and something I didn't really want to write but felt myself doing so anyway because it wouldn't leave my mind. I'm incredibly nervous about posting it, in fact I'm so nervous that I deliberately haven't posted it even though it's been complete for nearly over a week. I don't expect to see something like this on the show, I don't want to see something like this on the show and I wrote it because it wouldn't leave my head, not because I want to see it. I haven't gone through something like this, and so if I've mistakenly been completely insensitive then please let me know because the last thing I want to do is hurt anybody. 
> 
> This was inspired by the amazing stjarna's 'Tonight, I'm drowning' (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14115249 ). She is an amazing author, and you should completely check out her works.

“Jemma?” Fitz calls out softly, gently pushing open the door their room.

He knows she’s in here, knows she hasn’t left here all day, but sometimes she wants to be alone and he leaves her be. Every hour or so he comes back and asks if she needs anything, if there’s anything he can do. Sometimes she wants to be held and sometimes she cries but sometimes (and these are the most terrifying) she says in an awful monotone voice that she’d ‘rather be alone right now, sorry’.

There’s always an apology at the end.

It always breaks his heart.

This time she’s lying atop of the bed covers, curled up like a question mark on her left side. She doesn’t move at the sound of his voice, doesn’t give any indication that she’s even heard him. It’s late, almost midnight, and Fitz hopes that maybe, just maybe, she’s been able to fall asleep.

He gently tip-toes around to the bed so he can see her. Jemma’s not asleep; her red-rimmed eyes are open and staring blankly at the wall, barely blinking.

“Jemma?” Fitz says again, gently. “Is there anything I can get for you? Anything you need?”

At the sound of his voice this time, Jemma sluggishly shifts her gaze to him, forehead furrowing as if to focus in on him, in surprise as if she can’t quite believe he’s here in front of her.

“I’m sorry, what?” She asks, her voice raspy. She doesn’t try to clear her throat.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” He repeats softly. “Anything you need?”

She seems to ponder his question for a few moments and then attempts a broken smile.

“A time machine?” Is what she says, and she manages a pathetic chuckle before her face crumples far too easily and she begins to sob.

Fitz kneels down beside her, gathering her into his shoulder. It’s an awkward position but he doesn’t want to move her, doesn’t want to cause her any more pain. Jemma’s arms snake around him, holding on tightly as if he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to this dying earth. The vibrations of her sobs echo into his shoulder and feel oh so sharp, like they are cutting right through him.

This pain is a pain they both bare, but he knows it is a different sort of hurt for her. He knows that, without question, he would take it if he could.

The sobs subside and Jemma pulls back, shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” she croaks, curling back up.

“Don’t apologise, Jemma.” Fitz’s own voice sounds raspy. He cups her face with his hand, gently stroking with his thumb.

She closes her eyes, opens them again. Oh, how her eyes are familiar, how he has seen them in so many lights across so many years. As familiar as her eyes are, he has never seen them like this: so full of undisguised raw grief that it burns his very soul.

“I know we’ll make it through this. Together.” She sniffs shakily. “But it _hurts_ , Fitz. It _hurts_.”

“I know,” he says for something, anything to say but really, he doesn’t know at all. It hurts for him, of course it does. It hurts so badly that it feels like he can’t breathe but it’s different for her and he knows it. He knows that he really doesn’t _know._

“I allowed myself to… hope.” A weak chuckle. “Although I suppose I knew it didn’t quite match up with things Deke said but…” her eyes flit upwards towards the ceiling and her face crumples again. “I just _hoped._ ”

In truth Fitz had hoped too, had been so optimistic that it had scared him. Because this baby had been the sign they weren’t cursed, right? It had to have been. Because this had to be their new beginning, their hope, didn’t it?

Because no universe could be this cruel, could it?

Except the universe had really outdone itself this time; dealt them a blow that had brought them to their knees.

“I’ve given so much to SHIELD,” Jemma continues, her eyes still on the ceiling. Fitz never removes his hand. “I suppose I’ve never really thought about it before, never really had the time to think about it.” She sighs deeply but shakily. “But I’ve given up so much: my family, my home, my chance of a normal life…” Her eyes come back to meet his own. “I’ve even given up you.”

Fitz’s throat feels thicken with the admission. He thinks about what he’s given up for SHIELD, what he’s done in its name. What even is SHIED anymore, he thinks? What even is this once proud organization that’s taken away everything from him at some point or another? Are they even really SHIELD anymore; can they even call themselves that? There’s nothing left, not really, not anymore.

“And I never minded, or not permanently anyway,” Jemma continues. “Because we were doing it for the greater good. I was a part of something bigger and it was all to save the world.” Her tone has grown slightly bitter, words tinged with resentment. “But a,” he lips tremble, and the next word is almost lost, “ _baby?_ I mind that. That’s too much.”

It is too much. It’s far, far too much.

“I’m done, Fitz,” she says; her voice is tired but decisive. “I want to save the world and I want to help save our friends but I don’t think I can do anything else.” Tears begin to trail down her face, catching the low light. Her voice is thick with tears and she sounds so lost and confused. “I have nothing left to _give._ ”

And she shouldn’t have had to give anything, shouldn’t have had to give everything. Jemma Anne Simmons who loves so much and gives so much shouldn’t have had to give and give and give until she feels as though she’s empty. None of them should.

“Then we’ll leave,” he whispers, trying to smile. “We’ll go away someplace nice.” The right word comes to mind. “We’ll go to Scotland. Perth.”

It gets a weak smile from Jemma and it was more than he was hoping for. “That would be nice.” Her voice is almost wistful. “We can get a cottage.”

“A cottage would be perfect.” He leans in, kissing her gently on the forehead. “Just what we need.”

Yes, Fitz thinks, agreeing with himself. They need to leave. This is it. They’ll save the world and save their family but after that they need to go. He doesn’t think they can take anymore loss.

Jemma closes her eyes, places her hand over Fitz’s, squeezing gently before letting go, and inhales deeply, forehead furrowing.

“Are you in pain?” He asks. “I can go get some painkillers or something…”

“No,” she says sharply, cutting him off. Opening her eyes, she fixes him with a pleading look. “Please, don’t go.”

Against his desire to take away the pain, to get her something to make it lessen even for just a little while, he doesn’t move.

“Can you, maybe just lie with me for a little while?”

The vulnerability with which she is asking kills him and he doesn’t trust himself to speak so nods. He moves around to the other side of bed, gently climbing on until he can curl himself around Jemma. Gently resting his hands over her midsection above her own, Fitz feels her sink back into him, using him as support, like she’s too tired to even keep herself on her side anymore.

“It’ll be alright,” he whispers into her hair. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now but it will be.”

Jemma nods against him. “I know,” she croaks. “I just thought we’d gotten past all of the bad things, that there was nothing left to be taken.” Fitz feels her shudder against him. “Maybe we are cursed.”

After everything, the curse turned into a joke. It turned into something used to poke fun at how they used to believe they were anything but unstoppable. It used to be funny and he used to love the way Jemma’s eyes rolled whenever she mentioned it that he didn’t really mind the exasperation aimed at him.

Now he’d give anything to be made fun of. Anything to have that lightness return to her eyes and the heart-breaking despair disappear from her voice.

“We aren’t cursed, Jemma,” he says softly. “We’re invincible, remember?”

“Yes, invincible,” she says it tentatively, like she doesn’t believe in it anymore and he doesn’t blame her because this kind of pain destroys all belief that you aren’t broken and that the universe doesn’t have something against you.

“Yeah, _invincible,_ ” he reaffirms.

Jemma begins to sob quietly again, her body shaking against him. He says nothing but holds her a little bit tighter, kissing her hair and letting her know that he’s here if she needs to fall apart.

Eventually it won’t hurt as much, won’t feel like a sharp dagger in the chest every time they breathe and every time they wonder what _might have been._

Later there will be time for saving the world but for now Fitz just holds Jemma as she mourns for the child they’ll never get to have, her sobs echoing around them, a requiem against the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day!


	6. Footsteps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz teaches his daughter how to walk. Fitzsimmons family fluff with Fitz being an adorable father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for jcmmavclours who sent me:  
> 'Hello! It's amazingjemma from ao3 ;) I am not sure if you accept prompts, but if you do, could you possibly write fitzsimmons fluff with their kid (maybe au even)? Like, maybe Fitz being the best dad ever and teaching their girl to talk/walk/just-toddler-things? Thank you! :)'  
> I hope this is what you had in mind, and I hope you enjoy!

“Come on, Sarah. You can do it.”

“She’ll do it on her own time, Fitz,” Jemma teases softly from her place on the couch where she’s flicking through a paper on modifying the biochemistry of the brain.

Fitz, from his own place on the floor, doesn’t look back to her, but instead keeps the camera trained on Sarah, who sits a few feet away from him, eyeing him suspiciously. “I swear she’s gonna do it when I’m not looking, though. I don’t want to miss her first steps.”

“You won’t miss her first steps if you just leave her to it. She’ll walk when she’s ready.”

He huffs, looking back to his wife but keeping the camera trained on his daughter. Jemma rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. “She’s already pulling herself up onto the furniture. That means walking isn’t far away.”

“I _know._ I’ve also done all of the research.”

Of course she has. Jemma Simmons always has and will continue to excel at preparation. He wonders if she knows something he doesn’t, why she isn’t as excited as him to see their daughter take her first steps.

“However,” she puts her paper to the side and slides down onto the floor beside him. “I also know that she isn’t going to walk just because you want her to. She’s very stubborn that way. If you keep pointing the camera at her she deliberately _won’t_ walk just because she knows it’ll annoy you.”

Sarah is definitely a daddy’s girl. From the moment she entered the world she’s had him hook, line and sinker. Fitz simply cannot believe that his little angel would ever be as devious as this, especially at a mere nine months old.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, watching his daughter innocently play with her toys in front of him. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“If that makes you feel better,” Jemma laughs, giving him a quick kiss before getting up. “I’m going to start making pancakes for breakfast. Would you like some?”

“Of course,” he says distractedly, too focussed on his daughter.

 Sarah watches her mother walk off, giving absolutely no indication that she’d like to get up and follow.

-x-

“See, it’s like this. That’s all you’ve got to do.”

Fit holds his daughters two arms above her head, helping her to ‘walk’. She takes shaky steps across the living room rug, giggling all the way.

“Yeah, that’s it! Clever girl!” He feels himself begin to grin, the corners of his mouth pulling up of their own accord.

When they get the couch, Fitz lets go of her, letting her grab on to the edge. She grins at him but holds her arms out, clearly wanting to continue the fun.

“How about,” he begins in a sing-song voice, “you try it yourself this time? Show daddy what a clever girl you are.”

It’s the practice but he has his phone out and set to record this historic moment in mere milliseconds. Sarah still holds her arms out, shaking her hips too, uncomprehending.

“Come on, just like you did with me.” His daughter still shows no sign of wanting to walk herself. In fact, her arms drop and her bottom lip juts out and she makes her blue eyes as wide as they can go. Sighing, he puts the phone down, chastising himself for being too pushy. “Is it the camera, hm? Do you not like it in your face? Okay then, that’s fine, I’ll just put it over here, see?”

Fitz sets the camera to record and puts it on the coffee table, trying to make it look as discreet as possible. “There we go. How about we try that walking thing again?”

Sarah’s face lights up, and she wiggles her hips and holds out her hands, clearly wanting to have another shot of the fun game.

Her enthusiasm is infectious. “Okay,” he relents. “We’ll do it one more time.”

They end up walking across the rug for another half an hour, and at the end there is a video full of him smiling at Sarah’s adorable giggles but still no sign that she would ever consider walking by herself.

-x-

“I think we should set up cameras around the house.”

“ _What?_ Why on earth would we do that?”

Jemma’ s incredulous voice makes Fitz spin around from where he is cooking pasta, wooden spoon in one hand ready to defend his argument.

“I _swear_ she’s about to walk, Jemma. I just know it.”

Jemma is sitting at the kitchen table, their daughter on her knee with a stuffed teddy version of penicillin in her hands. She rolls her eyes. “Oh, Fitz.”

“No, don’t _oh, Fitz_ me. She’s about to walk and we’re going to miss it and I swear she wants us to because she’s always acting like she’s gonna walk and then as soon as the camera’s out she acts like she doesn’t even know how to crawl.”

The pasta is beginning to overboil to he has to turn back to the pot, meaning he misses an epic Jemma Simmons eye roll. He does not miss the tone in her voice, which is just the verbal embodiment of the eye roll anyway.

“Sarah is nine months old. She is not scheming up a way to make you feel like a bad parent. How utterly preposterous.”

Pasta crisis averted, he turns back to his wife and child. Sarah is gurgling away to her toy, giggling occasionally. She catches his eyes and her smile melts his heart. He must admit that she doesn’t appear to be scheming against him. However, to save face he mumbles, “Well she has the genes for it,” though it lacks any of the defensiveness of his earlier statements.

“She’ll crawl when she’s ready, won’t you?” Jemma asks their daughter, tickling her belly.

Sarah looks straight at him, wide eyes blue and unblinking, and barks a laugh.

-x-

“Fitz!”

At Jemma’s shout, he races in from where he was out working in the garden. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He yells, unable to hear himself over the blood pounding in his ears, his heart beating ever so fast. “What’s happened?”

Jemma is sitting on the floor of the living room, Sarah on the floor beside her. “I’m sorry. Fitz,” she says softly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, it’s fine,” he breathes, trying to get his breath back. Eventually he’ll grow out of this panic. “What was it?”

Jemma looks even more apologetic. “I thought she was going to walk.”

Now he is breathless but for a different reason. “What? Really?”

“Yes. She had pulled herself up and had only one hand on the table. I truly thought she was going to do it.” She pulls a face. “Sorry.”

He looks at Sarah, and the grin on her face, the sparkle in her eyes, and decides that while her mother might be, his daughter doesn’t seem very sorry at all.

-x-

The false walking incident happens three more times.

Each time Sarah grins at his antics, and (he thinks purposefully) crawls towards him on all fours.

“It’s like the boy who cried wolf,” he tells her one day after another incident. “One day your mum’s going to say you’re about to walk and I’m just not going to come.”

She just smiles at him ever so innocently, knowing as well as he does that there will never not be a time when his daughter needs him that he won’t come running.

-x-

“Are you absolutely s _ure_ we can’t get the cameras? Just a few and-”

“ _Ugh, Fitz!”_

-x-

One day Jemma comes back from shopping and finds Fitz sitting at the kitchen table, Sarah on his knee, laptop in front of them playing a video.

“What on earth is that?” Jemma asks, coming around to look at the video.

“Eh,” he flounders, scratching at his head with one hand. He feels his cheeks begin to flame with embarrassment. “It’s…”

“’ _How to walk correctly_ ’,” Jemma reads the title of the video, squinting at it in confusion for a second before turning to him. “Fitz! Why are you even-” Then she stops, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You know? I don’t even want to be a part of it.”

She sighs, grabbing her shopping bags from the kitchen table and disappearing through the house, but not before calling over her shoulder, “I’ll just leave you two to do your thing!”

-x-

It comes to a head when Jemma finds him trying to bribe their daughter with chocolate before her dinner.

“No,” she says firmly, taking the bowl of maltesers out of his hand. “Absolutely not, Fitz. This is ludicrous.”

She says it like he hadn’t thought of everything. There is only around four the in the bowl (the others having fallen victim to his impatient stomach) and he’s cut them into small enough pieces so she won’t choke on them (though he did cut his finger while trying to quarter the bloody things) and he has her baby toothpaste and baby toothbrush with the monkeys on it _right there_ to gently wash the tiny pearls of milk teeth free from the sugar.

“No, it’s not,” he counters. “Jemma, I figured it out. The only reason she doesn’t want to walk is because she isn’t getting anything from it. Maybe giving her tiny pieces of chocolate will change her mind.”

“You realise how ridiculous you sound right now, don’t you?” She sighs, setting down the bowl and picking up Sarah who covers her mother in kisses. “We’d clearly been with Shield too long if you’re even seeing our own daughter as an evil genius.”

“Hey, I didn’t say she was evil. Wouldn’t discredit the ‘genius’ part of it, though. I mean look at her parents.”

At that, Jemma gives him a soft smile, but it’s not too long before she rolls her eyes again. She sets Sarah down on the floor, before joining him on the couch.

Taking one of her hands in his, she asks, “What’s going on, Fitz?”

He’s confused at this sudden change. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it must be more than wanting Sarah to walk. You know she’ll do it in her own time, eventually. After all,” the corners of her mouth quirk up in the precursor of a smile, “the steps she takes don’t need to be big, they just need to be in the right direction.”

Fitz does know she’ll do it in her own time, eventually, knows that he shouldn’t be pressuring her about it. He sighs, thumbing Jemma’s ring. She’s always been able to see right through him.

“It’s just… don’t want to miss them, you know? Her first steps are a big deal.”

“They are,” Jemma says. “But they aren’t such a big deal that you need to be obsessive of seeing it.”

“I know, I know. I just,” and he swallows because the admission is one he never thought would spill from his mouth. “It’s just _good_ dads don’t miss their kid’s first steps.”

“Oh, Fitz, no, listen to me: good fathers aren’t the ones who are there to see their children’s first steps. Good fathers are the ones who are there for all the steps that come next.”

She says this firmly, as if there aren’t any other alternatives to her truth, as if she believes this whole-heartedly.

She continues on. “After her first steps there will be her second, and then her third, and then once she starts walking you’ll almost wish she had never began.” She smiles but he feels her grip his hand more tightly, feeling how hard she needs him to _believe._ “If you miss them it does not make you a bad father.”

Somewhere, deep down, he knew that. His own father had been there for his first steps, after all. Fitz has seen the videotape of his own shaky steps, the camera held by his grandmother. He’s seen the man that haunts his nightmares in the corner, looking as proud as anything next to his mother. Alistair Fitz had been there in the beginning, there for one brief moment before leaving and being absent for all of the other big steps that his own son had taken in an effort to prove his father wrong.

“Still really want to see them, though,” Fitz mumbles, looking down towards their joined hands.

“Well,” and Jemma laughs an almost disbelieving but undeniably happy laugh. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about it anymore.”

He looks up to see Sarah, one hand on the coffee table, begin place her unsteady baby feet one in front of the other. Looking straight into her father’s eyes, she lets go of the table.

Fitz’s arms are open in a moment. “Come here,” he encourages. “Come on, you can do it! Walk to me!”

Her arms outstretched, mouth ready to smile. Sarah manages the ten steps to her father with both of her parents cheering her on.

As soon as Fitz feels her in his arms he closes them gently around her, lifting her into the air. “You did it!”

“Oh, what a clever girl,” Jemma grins, ruffling her hair.

Sarah giggles, eyes sparkling as her gaze locks with her father’s. He swears he see some kind of understanding within the universe that resides in the blue. He brings her close, feeling so grateful in this moment that it’s hard to comprehend.

“My genius,” he whispers into the softness of her baby hair, unbelievably happy at being able to witness the first,and ready to be there for all the steps going to come next. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day!


	7. Introducing Biscuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitzsimmons + dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt on tumblr by the wonderful @jcmmavclours who asked: "Hello again! ♥ I saw that video with the borking pup (so adorable!!) and thought if you are up for a prompt, could you maybe write a fic where Fitzsimmons adopt/rescue a puppy?? Some sort of stress relief for both of them :) thank you! ♥"
> 
> To Olesya. Thank you for being you! And congratulations on your exams - which is why I wanted to post this today for you! I'm sorry it's late, but I hope you like it!
> 
>  
> 
> Also, meet the real Biscuit, currently in DogsTrust Glasgow: https://www.dogstrust.org.uk/rehoming/dogs/dog/filters/gla~~~~~n~/1095625/biscuit
> 
> I had to change some details for the story but here she is. We adopted out dog from DogsTrust so they always have a special place in my heart. They have an Amazon wishlist which can be found here:
> 
> https://www.amazon.co.uk/registry/wishlist/3RVQJZIMCC1WD
> 
> Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

They haven’t been in their new house long when she brings it up.

It’s quite a sudden longing, perhaps something to do with just how _empty_ their new house appears to be with its seemingly endless corridors and bedrooms that they aren’t quite ready to fill. It’s a longing that keeps her up at night, stomach aching with something that feels like ungratefulness. The guilt eats her alive, keeps her awake into the wee hours of the morning. How can this not be enough? How can simply being here, with Fitz, not be enough for her?

And maybe it’s because she got that glimpse at motherhood, got a slither of what she could have in the future, that means she will no longer be satisfied at anything other than that anymore. But they aren’t ready, not yet. Too much has happened to simply let them dive into the idyllic quaint country life they have penned in for some date in the future. They agreed to take things in steps, and step one was quite simply just moving in.

That was over a month ago, now, and, ever restless, Jemma feels ready to take another one. Which is why, on one sunny as Scotland can be June morning, she awakes earlier than normal and makes breakfast before carrying it to Fitz in bed.

“Jemma?” He groans when she gently shakes him awake His hair is sticking out at odd angles and there are pillow marks on one side of his face, clearly the mark of a good night’s sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he sits up. “What’s this for?” He narrows his eyes. “What do you want?”

“What? Me? Why would I want anything? Don’t be ridiculous. Can’t a wife just make her husband breakfast in bed to be nice?”

Fitz narrows his eyes even more. “Maybe other wives _can,_ but you certainly don’t. Not without good reason anyway.”

She gently angles the plate closer to him, hoping the scent of pancakes will distract him. “I’m just being nice. Celebrating the fact that we can have breakfast in bed without the possibility of the world ending in the next five minutes.”

Perhaps that was too low of her to go, because his eyes soften and he places a hand over hers and _oh_ there’s a familiar sting of tears at the back of her eyes. The mood was meant to be light but now it’s like the clouds have blocked the sun and she’s done with living in the dark.

Coughing, and then smiling, Jemma says, “Well, actually, there was something…”

“Bloody knew it.” Fitz’s triumphant grin parts the clouds once more.

Ignoring him, she continues, “How would you feel about getting a dog?”

He looks at her curiously, as if he can’t decide if she’s serious or not. “As in a pet or as in one for you to ‘dissect’ for ‘science’.” He actually adds in the air quotes, his cheeky grin suggesting he’s waiting for her to bite.

She doesn’t and sighs, rolling her eyes. “Ugh, Fitz, of course I mean a pet.”

“Just making sure. Remember the last time we had a ‘pet’.”

“For the last time: it was delivered to the lab like that!”

“Sure it was, Jemma. Sure it was.”

Throwing her hands up at the age-old argument, she fixes him with a withering look. “We did not kill the cat, Fitz.” A deep breath and a smile. “But anyway, back to the question. How would you feel about getting a dog as a pet?”

“I think that would be a great idea. I’ve always wanted a dog, and we’ve definitely got the space for it.” Fitz makes his thinking face whilst chewing on a pancake. “Puppy or rescue?”

“Rescue,” Jemma answers immediately. “I mean it seems the right thing to do, doesn’t it?”

He smiles that soft smile that appears to be reserved only for her. “Absolutely.”

-x-

They spend the hour and a half drive to DogsTrust arguing about what type of dog they’d like to get.

Jemma, balancing several folders on her knee, argues, “I’m just saying I don’t think we necessarily have size limitations if we take into account the size of the house, and the land we have is ample enough for exercise.”

Fitz takes his eyes from the road long enough to give her a look of disbelief. “And all I’m saying is that we have to think of the costs involved for a larger dog.”

“The adoption fee is £120 regardless of the size of dog.”

“Yeah, I know that. I meant bigger dog means more food, bigger bed, some kennels make you pay more for a larger dog. I mean what if we wanted to go on holiday.”

“We’d figure it out, Fitz.”

He shoots her a short, worried glance. “Well that doesn’t sound like the Jemma Simmons I know.”

“Jemma _Fitz_ Simmons, actually,” she corrects, ignoring his actual statement.

The thing is, she did construct a cost analysis based on each potential type of dog they could adopt. She looked at the spreadsheets and compared them to all of her research on owning a dog and then never looked at them again. It was one thing to be prepared, it was another thing to try and fit the dog they didn’t even own yet into her own preconceived idea of what it might be like.

And with all of this starting over, maybe it’s time to try being someone new.

All of a sudden, they’re here and as Jemma looks at the bright yellow sign and the unassuming building, she feels a nervous tightening in her gut.

Fitz parks up and reaches over to hold her hand. They’ve been in some truly frightening life or death scenarios, and yet this, this level of commitment that they’ve only ever had for each other, seems more terrifying than anything.

“Well, Jemma Fitzsimmons, let’s go get a dog.”

-x-

“And this is Biscuit,” the volunteer announces, stopping in front of the last glass-fronted kennel in the row.

Jemma doesn’t see her at first, curled as she is amongst the blankets in her bed. When she notices people outside her kennel, she uncurls and runs up towards the door, tail wagging getting progressively faster until it’s really just a white blur.

“Aww, she’s cute,” Fitz smiles, kneeling down on the floor and talking nonsense to the dog who laps it up.

Jemma has to agree, Biscuit is very adorable. The sign on her kennel door proclaims that she’s a Jack Russel and that she’s a year old and that she likes sleeping and treats and dislikes loud noises. She’s completely white expect for her ears which are a caramel colour, making them look as though they’ve been stuck on. Jemma can’t help it, she laughs out loud.

Fitz turns around from his spot on the floor, as seemingly happy as the dog he’s been chatting up.  It’s been a while since Jemma’s seen him this happy, this seemingly carefree. Biscuit has done more for him in two minutes than she’s been able to do in a month and Jemma’s not even jealous. In fact, she’s rather relieved.

“Biscuit’s taken quite a shine to you there, Mr Fitz,” the volunteer laughs. “Can I assume that you’re both about to ask me to sign some paperwork?”

Jemma brings out her folder from her handbag. There’s questions in here, questions that she thought she needed to have answered to know that whatever dog would be the right fit for them. She thought she’d need to know why the dog was given up, what were the pervious owners like, how were they fed, did they like a certain type of lead to be walked on or a certain bowl to eat from. She thought she’d need to know everything in order to help rescue a dog that would become part of their family.

She was wrong. She doesn’t need to know anything of the kind. All she needs to know can be seen in the brightness of Fitz’s smile, the joy in his voice as he calls Biscuit a smart girl.

Slowly, Jemma slides the folder back into her bag and smiles to the volunteer.

“Yes, I think that was exactly what I was about to do.”

-x-

 They’re sitting in the living room after dinner, mindlessly watching television in a way that’s become quite enjoyable. Jemma is researching how to take care of Jack Russel Terriers, and Fitz is doodling designs for a dog crate that’s sturdy but portable.

“Should we change her name?”

Jemma, not really paying attention because she’s engrossed in this article on positive reinforcement training, asks, “Change whose name?”

“Biscuit’s name. Should we change it?”

She looks up from her laptop and over to Fitz whose pen is paused in mid-air as if the thought has just burst into his brain. His expression of confusion, she imagines, mirrors hers.

“Oh, I don’t know. I know you can change a dog’s name and it’s relatively easy.”

“Yeah,” he muses, “thought that. I know you can do it, just don’t know if we _should._ ”

This all seems to be getting very deep for a talk about whether or not to change the name of their new dog. Jemma cocks her head and opens and closes her mouth a few times, doing a remarkable impression of a goldfish. What does she say in this situation? What does she do?

To her utter relief Fitz laughs. “Relax, Jemma. It’s just about the dog. I promise.”

 _Oh thank goodness_ but she doesn’t say that aloud, only smiles. “Well, about the dog. I don’t know, I suppose I quite like the name Biscuit. It’s rather cute, I think.”

“Yeah, it suits her, doesn’t it? And it’s a food. I love food.”

Jemma snorts. “You certainly love biscuits.”

“Oh, did you get those Hobnobs ‘cause they were on offer at Tesco and-”

The odd tangent makes her laugh because it’s so random and so expected at the same time. “Yes, Fitz. I got you Hobnobs. Both types.”

“You’re the best.” But then his eyes take on that far away look. “Biscuit Fitzsimmons.” He grins at her. “What do you think?”

There’s a relief deep down in her heart that surely just can’t be because their new addition is going to be named after one of his favourite foods. “It sounds absolutely perfect.”

-x-

Two weeks after their first visit, and after a home visit and registering with a vet, finally they are able to pick up their latest addition.

While Jemma is paying, they bring out Biscuit who runs to Fitz as if she’s seeing her best-friend after an age. Or she _tries_ to run to Fitz – the volunteer has her on the standard DogsTrust harness and lead and it prohibits Biscuit from running to Fitz as fast as she clearly would have liked.

“Biscuit, heel.” The volunteer commands in a clipped tone and the dog begrudgingly returns to her side. The woman gives Biscuit a treat and then smiles at the both of them. “You’re the Fitzsimmonses here for Biscuit, right?” The dog barks as in agreement and the volunteer laughs. “Clearly I didn’t even need to ask the two of you; this girl’s already made up her mind who she’s going home with.”

“She has that,” Fitz affirms. “So that’s it then? We can just take her home now?”

“Yup, you can. Here’s a bag of her stuff from her old home, along with things she’s managed to acquire here.” The volunteer hands them a carrier bag. “You have your folder, right?”

“Yup,” Jemma says, holding out the adoption folder she was given. “We need to give these details to her new vet.”

“That’s right.” The volunteer hands the lead to Fitz. “Well I suppose it’s time to say goodbye then, girl, isn’t it?” She rubs Biscuit’s head affectionately and then smiles at them once more. “Enjoy your new dog! Any problems and please phone us if you have any issues at all.” She glances to where Fitz has picked up Biscuit who is now licking his face. “Though I feel like you’ll be absolutely fine.”

Jemma thanks her and turns to her husband and her dog, feeling rather like a third wheel on their private moment.

“Well then, I suppose it’s time to go home.”

Biscuit’s ears perk up and Jemma laughs.

“Yes, you’re coming home with us.” She rubs Biscuit’s head and the dog begins to lick her hand in a way that seems to suggest she’s eager for Jemma to know that she’s loved too.

The volunteer appears to be right so far. Absolutely fine.

-x-

The first night cannot exactly be described as ‘absolutely fine’.

As eager to come home with them as she was, Biscuit appears to have acquired some ‘leaving kennel’ anxiety.

Jemma knew about this. She read about this and prepared for it by setting up Biscuit’s crate in the living room with the TV on low volume so the poor puppy wouldn’t be in total silence in her first night alone. She knew that the dog might whine and cry. It just doesn’t make it any easier to listen too.

It’s two in the morning and they’re both awake, both completely not enjoying the howls of poor little Biscuit coming up from downstairs.

“Jemma,” Fitz whispers, “are you awake?”

“Yes,” she whispers back. “It’s such a shame; I wish there was something we could do.”

“Are you sure we couldn’t…?”

“You know we can’t, Fitz. All of the websites were clear on this,” she says, putting to rest once again a question that’s already popped up three times in the period since they’ve left Biscuit on her own.

“I know but she sounds so sad.”

“It’s better for her in the long run.” Jemma wonders who she’s trying to convince here.

Eventually, she falls asleep, more out of sheer exhaustion than any immunity against the pitiful cries. But a few hours later they awaken her again. Fitz is sleeping beside her, clearly having succumbed to sleep the same way as her.

As stealthily as possible, she swings out of bed and tiptoes downstairs. Biscuit, hearing a noise, ramps up the howling.

“Shh, it’s alright. It’s just me,” Jemma soothes, coming into the room. Biscuit is at the door of her crate, tail wagging madly at the familiar person. When Jemma opens the door, she rushes at her, nuzzling into her and making soft noises.

“Oh dear, what a state you’ve gotten yourself into,” Jemma murmurs, feeling the dog quiver beneath her fingers. She sighs, knowing there’s really only one option for the night.

“Fine,” she relents. “Come on. You can come and sleep in our room. But only for tonight.”

And gathering the dog in her arms, along with some of her blankets from the kennel, she brings her upstairs and arranges her on a blanket and pillows on the floor at the foot of their bed.

“I’m sorry but I do draw the line at you sleeping on the bed.”

Finally, Jemma is able to have a blissful sleep unaccompanied by a soundtrack of cries.

In the morning she awakes to a strange weight in the middle of her and Fitz and finds Biscuit curled up asleep with one of her blankets, snoring softly.

-x-

This little dog in such a short space of time becomes everything to them.

The house never feels empty, not anymore, because Biscuit loves exploring almost everywhere she can get into. She loves to explore the surrounding fields, is especially a fan of the river that bisects the woods nearby. It turns out she loves the rain (which is just as well, really, because this is Perth and it’s wet even on sunny days) and jumps in muddy puddles whenever she can.

But this little dog makes Fitz smile more carefree than he has in years, He laughs with her, plays fetch and looks back to Jemma as bright as the sun. This little dog brings out a side in him that she had feared had been lost to him forever. A side she thinks he was afraid he’d lost forever.

Biscuit is by all intents and purposes a ‘rescue dog’. All of her records now say that she is. Except Jemma knows that it wasn’t them who rescued Biscuit.

As she launches a ball across a field and watches as Fitz races the dog to retrieve it, she knows without a doubt that it was really Biscuit who rescued them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave kudos/comment. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day and thank you for stopping by!


	8. Night Owls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For @hemnalini who led me to the cutest montage of baby videos that I couldn't believe - my heart was so full! 
> 
> Fitz and his daughter having father/daughter moments at 3am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @hemnalini who prompted me with:  
> hey darling! i love your writing so much, especially the ones with fitz's shenanigans with his daughter, and i saw this video on fb today, in case it's an inspirations for something :)   
> facebook.com/NTDFunniest/videos/2227289680893854/?hc_ref=ARRk7BAnJ2tDodg1uw3HwSWIS7mbnh6gtkOFRnVsyT79Pw_1I9Xu_T6tri5ZTbcmR0Y
> 
> This took me so long to write because I had so many ideas - and I now have four different versions of this prompt saved now. But this is the one I went with, because I kind of thought it was cute. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it, and I thoroughly recommend taking a look at the video because oh wow I could watch it forever, my heart is so full!

“Daddy!”

The scream awakens him at _02:47._ A record. Usually it’s somewhere between 1 and 2.

Fitz sighs, swings his legs out of bed. Tries to rub away the bleariness from his eyes. Beside him, Jemma rolls awake.

“Do you want me to go?” She whispers into the dark.

“No, I’ll go,” he yawns. “You know she’ll only settle if it’s me.”

It’s not even a boast. It’s just a fact. Their daughter is going through a stage, a prelude to the ‘terrible twos’ s so prophesied about. Sarah doesn’t sleep through the night anymore. Always awakes with a most terrible ear-splitting cry that hurts his heart. Always for him.

Always ‘daddy’. Never ‘mummy’.

Fitz loves his daughter more than anything in this world, but he wishes that maybe sometimes she would want for her mother as much as she wanted for him.

“Good luck,” Jemma advises him. She clinks on the beside lamp, takes a book off table. She’ll stay like this until he comes back and tells her everything is fine.

He half stumbles through to his daughter’s room. She’s standing in her cot, holding onto the edge of the railings. Big fat tears make their slow descent down her cheeks. Her mouth is open, ready to howl when he flicks on the light.

“Hey,” he says soothingly. “It’s alright.”

“Daddy,” she says mournfully, holding out her hands to be picked up. He obliges.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs wearily, as she sniffles into his chest. “What was it this time, huh? Bad dream?”

“Yeah,” Sarah whispers.

“Aw, well then. Good job I’m here then, isn’t it?”

As he gently bounces on the balls of his feet with his daughter in his arms, he is suddenly struck by the thought that even though it’s almost three in the morning, he really doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

It feels as though she’s about to nod off back to sleep and so he gently goes to put her back down, moving as though his bones were made from houses of precariously stacked cards.

“ _No!”_ Sarah shrieks, so violently that it makes his heart almost jump out of his skin.

“Okay, okay,” he says softly, resigning himself to no sleep tonight. “Let’s take a walk.”

She clings to him tightly as he walks downstairs, tears drying on her cheeks. He loves her so much, but this phase, though merely tiresome at first, is now starting to worry him. Him and Jemma aren’t overbearing helicopter parents. The term ‘free range’ would be excellent to describe them. Though it isn’t Sarah deciding to roll in the dirt or drag out the pots and pans and play drums with them. That’s the ‘terrible twos’. Her not sleeping through the night is the stuff of his nightmares.

The living room looks like a ghostly dreamland at this time of the morning. Fitz hasn’t seen it at this time in a while; not since the nightmares of his own had abated into a maybe once or twice-yearly occurrence. Even then, he doesn’t have to get up anymore. All he has to do is look at Jemma, feel her head on his chest, think of his daughter and the fear melts away enough for him to go back to sleep.

“How about some cartoons, huh? It doesn’t look like either of us are going to go back to sleep now.”

He feels a tiny head nod assent into his t-shirt.

Fitz feels about a million years old as he sinks into the sofa, fumbling for the TV remote. He clicks it on, bright, artificial television light suddenly flooding the room. He winces until his eyes adjust.

“Alright,” he murmurs to himself. “Let’s see what’s on at 3 in the morning.”

The answer to that is nothing. They should really have all night children’s programmes for this very purpose.

He sighs. “Let’s see what’s recorded.” Not expecting much, he navigates to the menu and is so pleasantly surprised and wondrously relieved when he sees several episodes of various children’s programmes recorded.

“Oh, thank God for Jemma.” He bounces Sarah on his knee. “Can’t believe I used to get annoyed at how prepared your mum was for everything.”

He clicks an episode and arranges Sarah on his knees so she can watch it.

It’s only five minutes in when a little voice pipes up, “Daddy, ice-cream?”

He isn’t entirely sure that it’s not just his sleep-deprived brain playing tricks on him. “What now?”

Sarah looks back at him, eyes wide and innocent. Far too bright for this time. “Ice-cream?”

There are so many reasons he shouldn’t. It’s 3am. She’s only just almost two. The sugar would keep her up for hours. The ice-cream in the freezer isn’t exactly famous for being healthy.

But he’s tired, and neither of them are going to sleep anyway, and this one 3am feast of ice-cream won’t scar her for life. He’ll give her a banana in the morning, the proper morning, but for now he just scrubs a free hand down is face and says, “Alright then, ice-cream it is.”

Fitz just darts to the kitchen quickly and grabs the tub from the freezer along with two spoons. If they’re going to break the rules, they may as well do it properly and forgo the use of bowls.

“Here you go,” he says, handing Sarah her spoon. She grins at him. Even though he sees the same smile around ten times a day, it never fails to set his heart aglow.

Fitz sits her on his lap, the tub of ice-cream open in front of them. There’s only a brief moment of _am I actually letting my daughter eat ice-cream at 3am?_ before he just digs in. Sarah copies him, digging her spoon in perhaps a little more forcefully and getting less ice-cream out of it than she would have liked. She frowns at the spoon, unhappy with its unwillingness to cooperate.

It’s too adorable. Fitz laughs. Earns a glare.

“No, see it’s like this,” he says encouragingly, showing her how to do it. He eats the ice-cream with a _mmm._

Sarah still looks confused, and so he gets some more on the spoon. She darts forward and eats it herself, a self-satisfied grin on her face.

“Oh, that’s how it is. Fine, eat my ice-cream. I don’t even care,” he says, mock-stiffly. He turns his head away from her but continues to get ice-cream on the spoon for her to take.

Every time he pretends he doesn’t see it earns another giggle and it might be 3am but he’s almost glad for it.

“What’s going on in here?”

Fitz and Sarah both freeze at the sound of Jemma’s voice. Fitz turns his head around to see her leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Uh…” he stalls. “We’ll, we’re…”

“Ice-cream!” Sarah supplies helpfully.

“Ice-cream?” Jemma asks questioningly.

Fitz laughs awkwardly, slowly lowering the spoon. “Yeah, ice-cream. You see, she wouldn’t settle, and we were watching cartoons anyway, so I figured why not.”

Jemma sighs and shakes her head and begins to walk through to the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Fitz whisper-shouts after her, although there’s really no point in whispering anymore when every member of their household is awake.

“To get a spoon, of course. Don’t think you’re eating all of the ice-cream without me.”

He smiles at her as she comes to sit down next to them.

“Mummy,” Sarah greets, as if she hadn’t seen her two seconds ago, and clambers off Fitz’s lap so she’s sitting in between the two of them.

“Morning, darling,” Jemma kisses her daughter on the head. “I see you’re having ice-cream for breakfast.”

Sarah nods solemnly and steals some from Fitz’s spoon to emphasis the point.

Jemma laughs, and Fitz’s heart feels full.

“Oh, how clever,” Jemma comments, and motions for Fitz to pass her the tub.

He does and asks, “Why are you up?”

She gives him one of her _oh, Fitz_ looks. “You didn’t come back through to say everything was alright,”

“Sorry, Jemma,” he says over the head of their daughter trying to spear ice-cream.

“It’s fine,” she dismisses with the wave of a spoon. “I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this ice-cream party anyway.”

They sit watching cartoons mindlessly until the ice-cream is nothing but melted dregs and Sarah has actually settled down to sleep.

“We should probably get to bed,” Jemma whispers.

“What’s the point now?” He gestures with his free hand towards the window, where faint daylight is beginning to trickle in. “It’s almost sunrise.”

Her soft smile and even softer eyes make him feel as though he is falling in love all over again. Even after all these years she still loves the sunrise.

“Well then,” she says slowly, “we can’t miss the sunrise now, can we?”

“No,” he smiles, “we can’t.”

It’s different, Fitz thinks. It’s the same sunrise, but it’s so very different. Ice-cream covers his daughter’s face, and the light glints off the ring on Jemma’s finger. He doesn’t need it anymore, the bright promise of a new tomorrow, of the sun rising, baptising a new day.

He has everything he needs right here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day!


	9. mothers and daughters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma has a talk about the future with her daughter. For @jcmmavclours because she's not feeling well and I wanted to make her feel better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I felt like I already have so many things with Fitz and his daughter and Jemma deserved to have one, too. I really did hope to make this a lot lighter and fluffier but it went this way instead. I hope it's okay!
> 
> This is for Olesya. I hope you feel better soon <3

“Mum, when do you think it’s appropriate to have sex?”

Jemma almost spits out and then chokes on her tea, recovering quickly enough so that Sarah doesn’t see it. Of all the questions she has come in from school asking, this has to be one of those she considers to be more ‘out there’.

Sarah continues before Jemma can even begin to formulate a response.

“Because I went and asked dad, right, but then he turned that colour he turns in Summer if he hasn’t put on sun cream and he said he was too busy right now and that I should ask you.”

It makes Jemma laugh, the image of Fitz having to face that question from his fifteen-year-old daughter who she knows, without a doubt, he still hopes to see as a five year old.

 _No wonder,_ Jemma thinks dryly, when he’s being faced with questions like that.

Rationally, she knows that Sarah’s probably only asking out of curiosity, that perhaps they’re doing sex education at school. Their daughter is wonderfully intelligent, a prodigy in her own right, but sometimes she can be naïve about the big bad world (something that, perhaps rightly or wrongly, her parents have almost encouraged). It is therefore understandable, surely, that Jemma’s heart begins to beat a little faster and the liquid in her teacup begins to tremble.

“Why do you ask?” She says to Sarah, making sure her tone is light as if she too is simply curious.

“Ugh,” Sarah sighs, kicking off her shoes and flopping down on the sofa with a  force that makes Jemma wince. “Just what we were talking about at school. If there’s an actual time where everyone is ready by and or it’s just dependent on the person.”

Swallowing back an indescribable wave of relief, Jemma smiles. “Everybody is different. Some people might be ready at sixteen, some might not be ready until they’re seventy and neither one is wrong.” She narrows her eyes at her daughter. “You, however, are fifteen, and even if you felt ready for…” she swallows, suddenly as uncomfortable as she imagines Fitz was, “ _that_ then the law says it’s illegal until you’re sixteen.”

Sarah rolls her eyes. “I know _that._ I’m not stupid.”

“Well, that’s good then, isn’t it?” Jemma nods, and goes back to drinking her tea, expecting her daughter to get up and go start her coursework or get ready for one of her numerous activities that she always seems to have planned.

However, while Sarah does sit up straight, she almost hovers at the edge of Jemma’s vision, almost as if she wants to say something. While she never was very good at picking up on social cues, Jemma is finely attuned to her daughter. She puts down her tea.

“Is there something on your mind?”

Sarah looks startled. “If I liked a boy at school, is that okay?”

 _Where is this coming from?_ Jemma wants to ask but doesn’t. Mentally, she recounts every conversation they’ve ever had about this subject,  wondering if she’s ever said anything that would give Sarah the impression that it wasn’t okay.

“Of course it’s okay,” she says gently, but unable to help the frown she feels on her face. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“And if I wanted to go study Politics and International Relations at university in St Andrews, would that be okay?”

Jemma feels her frown deepen. “Yes, if that’s what you wanted to do then it would be more than okay. It isn’t up to me or your father to decide what you do with your life.”

Sarah acts as if she hasn’t even answered. “And I wanted to join SHIELD when I was older, would that be okay, too?”

Here it is. Now Jemma feels as though they might have gotten to the crux of the matter. She shifts along the sofa to be closer to Sarah.

“Is that was this is about? You wanting to join SHIELD?”

“Yes and no,” Sarah huffs, frustrated. “It’s about choices.”

“Choices?”

“Yes, choices.” She drops her eyes and begins to scuff her feet on the carpet. “When are we allowed to make our own choices?”

“Sarah…” Jemma breathes out gently. “What is this really about?”

Sarah is easy to read, always has been. Every emotion is plain to see on her face, every thought and every feeling as clear as day. It’s all too easy to tell when she’s hiding something.

“I just always feel… weird.”

Jemma feels her concern begin to grow. “Weird, how?”

“Like I just don’t really fit in with the other people at school,” Sarah mumbles. “I mean I’m doing a bachelor’s degree but every day I still go to school. I feel older and not older all at the same time.”

“Listen,” Jemma holds out both her hands and Sarah takes them, like she always has done ever since she was a toddler. She’s gotten so big so quickly it feels like mere moments ago she was learning to talk and talk and now she’s completing a bachelor’s degree. “That was a choice your father and I made for you, because you were thirteen, and we weren’t going to take you out of school at thirteen.”

“But why?”

Sometimes Sarah is so like her.

“Because your father and I know exactly what it was like to be that young at university and we were…” sometimes it’s still hard to talk about, “lonely. Neither of us would ever want that for you.”

Sarah sets her mouth obstinately. There are some things that make it clear she is still fifteen years old. “It worked out fine for you two, though.”

“That was a very different situation, Sarah. There was no guarantee we would ever meet. I am so thankful it worked out for us, I am, but you must realise that just because it worked out for us, doesn’t mean it would be the same for you.” Jemma closes her eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. Opens them again and tries to see Sarah instead of herself at fifteen, wondering and never fully understanding why she was so alone. “You are fifteen, and there was no way, still is no way, that we would send you to university where everyone would at least be aged seventeen and-”

“And I have friends at school,” Sarah finishes. “And because it’s independent they don’t have to conform to the same standards and regulations that state schools do, so I can still be there even though I’ve completed the highest level of education they offer, and I can do my degree whilst still staying with my peers.”

“Yes,” Jemma says, nodding. “Exactly that.”

Sarah tilts her head to consider. “I understand that. But what about after?”

“After?”

“Well when can I leave?”

“When you’re sixteen, because the law says you can.”

“You know,” Sarah begins, eyes twinkling with that mischievousness that Jemma attributes completely to Fitz and Daisy. “you’re very big on the law considering that you and Dad broke it half the time when you were in your twenties.”

“Sarah!” Jemma gasps, shocked. They haven’t really ever told her about their SHIELD escapades. “Where on earth did you learn those things?”

She just rolls her eyes. Definitely fifteen. “Please, mum. I’m a child genius and I have an aunt who used to be a computer hacker. I’ve learned some things.”

“Darling, you don’t even know the half of it,” Jemma quips, although secretly glad that the worst of things would never be able to be found on any server anywhere.

Jemma goes back to pick up her teacup, thankful that Fitz has at least designed her favourite one to always keep her tea hot.

“So, mum,” Sarah begins again, and she represses a sigh. She loves Sarah with all of her heart but this conversation has dragged up some memories she now needs to deal with before she, ideally, talks about anything else.

“Yes?”

“Could I join SHIELD when I’m older, then?”

This question is something Jemma has feared ever since the day Sarah’s nursery teacher sat down and told her that she was intellectually very advanced for her age. Of course, everything is very different now and the world isn’t about to be broken apart, but the thought of her still so very young child, a piece of her heart, going to join the organisation that gave her so much but took so much, fills her with something akin to dread.

“If you want to join SHIELD when you graduate then that is entirely your choice,” Jemma says carefully. “Your father and I will always support and love you.”

“I know,” Sarah smiles sweetly. “I know you’d do anything for me.”

_Oh, darling. You have no idea the lengths we would go to for even the mere idea of you._

“Of course, we would.” Jemma pulls her daughter in for a hug, “We would do absolutely anything for you.”

It used to scare her, how far she found she would be willing to go for her daughter. Her and Fitz both already knew how far they would go for each other, what they would risk to be able to keep the other one safe. What they didn’t know, was how that feeling would apply almost a hundred-fold the instant they laid eyes on their daughter for the first time.

SHIELD is very different now, and it’s better than it ever was when her and Fitz were still major players in its operation. Her daughter would be well looked after and cared for, would have so many people looking out for her that Jemma and Fitz would probably never have to worry for her safety the way they had to worry for each other’s. It makes her uneasy, even the mention of it, but if it’s what she wants to do then it’s what she wants to do and Jemma will make her peace with it and ensure she is the very best she can be.

She swallows back the emotional lump that has appeared in her throat and gently nudges Sarah, suggesting, “Do you have any coursework that you have to do tonight?”

Sarah sighs and gets up. “Yup, I’ve got some silly thing to write up on protein purification.” She rolls her eyes as she picks up her discarded shoes and moves towards the door. “It’s so simple I could do it in my sleep. I’ll be finished this degree in no time.” And then she leaves.

Jemma picks up her tea and settles back into the sofa. Taking a sip, she smiles softly to herself and thinks, _that’s my girl._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day!


	10. Close Quarters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for jcmmavclours who requested:  
>  Fitzsimmons +"We’re hiding from the authorities and it’s very close quarters in here, I can feel your body against mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts are so much fun, aren't they?!   
> Thank you so much to Olesya for this one - I hope you like it!

“Come on, Fitz! There’s a cleaning cupboard over here!”

Although they’re meant to be running from the authorities, who may catch them at any moment, Fitz still stops short and cocks a very unimpressed eyebrow.

“A cleaning cupboard, Jemma? Really? Of all the clichéd things out there.”

“Fitz, we really do not have time for this,” Jemma grumbles, and grabs his arm, pulling him in with her to the small, cramped space, which only becomes smaller when she manages to shut the door behind her.

There’s no window, and when Jemma finds the light switch, the bulb flickers for one moment before going out again.

“Great,” Fitz huffs. “Bloody great.”

“Oh, calm down,” Jemma says, with a tone that suggests she’s getting a bit fed-up of his attitude. “Would you rather be out there?”

He considers the possibility of getting caught and dismisses it almost seconds after. He doesn’t have the type of body that would do well in prison.

Once he manages to catch his breath, Fitz notices that he can’t see very much at all. Cautiously, he holds his hands out in front of him, trying to judge just how big this cleaning cupboard is and how far he is away from Jemma. His hand makes contact with something unidentifiable.

“Fitz!” Jemma exclaims, then, more quietly, “what are you doing? That is my _boob.”_

“Gah!” He jerks his hand away as if he’s been burned. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Jemma. I’m… I was just trying to – I’m sorry.” Luckily this cupboard is dark, because he’s almost sure his face has turned a never seen before shade of red.

“Relax,” Jemma laughs, breathy. He can’t see her, but he imagines her smile in the dark. “It’s quite alright.”

The sound of footsteps and loud, angry voices outside draws their attention. Jemma shivers.

“You okay?” Fitz asks in a small voice, still dying internally from the incident.

“I just… I don’t want to get caught, Fitz.”

The admission catches him off guard. She’s been so sure of this from the beginning. They’ve been so lucky so far, why would today be any different?

He takes a tentative step closer to the vague outline he can see through the gloom, keeping his hands firmly by his side. “It’ll be okay,” he says softly. “We’ll just stay in here until they go away and sneak out the back door like the original plan.”

“Yes, yes we will. It’ll be fine. Not like there’s even the slightest chance of us going to prison. Oh, I won’t do well in prison. My mum would kill me before we even got there. I’ve heard an awful lot of bullying goes on in these places and I got bullied rather a lot when I was younger and I doubt it’s like chickenpox where if you’ve gone though it once you can’t go through it again-”

“S _immons!”_ Fitz hisses. “Shh.” And he presses a finger to his lips, realising a second too late that she cannot see.

The shouts and footfalls from outside grow louder and heavier. Unconsciously, they both seem to take a step forward towards each other. His arm brushes bare skin and he jerks it back.

There’s a quiet laugh. “It’s alright, Fitz,” Jemma whispers. “It’s only my arm.”

“That’s a relief,” he mutters, and slowly he replaces his arm to its original position.

If this were the movies, they would be so close they’d be touching by now. Perhaps their arms would be around each other and their heads would make that love heart shape silhouette. It would be tense and romantic and the stuff dreams (not his dreams of course, no way his dreams) are made of.

This isn’t the movies, though. They’re close but not too close and his foot is currently inside a mop bucket, an unfortunate fact that he’s only just realised.

“It’s kind of cool in here,” he says after a beat. “I thought cupboards were meant to get hot.”

“Cool? It’s freezing in here. I’m surprised they can’t hear my teeth chattering.”

He flounders for a moment, knowing the chivalrous thing to do but unsure of how to offer. Finally, he decides to just go for it.

“Well, uh, d’you want my jacket then?”

“Are you sure? Didn’t you say you were cool?”

“Nah, I’m fine. Really, it’s for the best. I’ll overheat anyway. My body isn’t used to temperatures above seventeen degrees Celsius.” He begins to shrug off his jacket but it’s awkward in the dark with so little space. “Yeah, here, let me just get this bit off…” he struggles with the arm and grins sheepishly even though she can’t see. “Just a bit stuck here… two seconds…”

Fitz finally manages to tug his arm free, but in the process he knocks into Jemma. Praying it wasn’t in an inappropriate place again (because, really, there are only so many accidents considered acceptable before even your best-friend sues you for sexual harassment in the workplace), he tries to step backwards but he tries to use the foot that’s caught in the mop bucket and it flies out right from underneath him, straight into Jemma. They both fall, in the most undignified manner possible, to the floor.

Jemma is the first one to recover. “Oh, dear,” she says, as though it’s a minor slip up and not like they may have compromised a covert operation.

“Ow…  my… ankle,” Fitz coughs out, once air drags itself back into his lungs. He manages to kick off the mop bucket and feel down. “Oh, it’s not broken. Thank God.”

Jemma makes a noise in her throat. “I think my head is bleeding.”

Fitz wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Not before he has the chance to check that she’s okay, however.

“Damn it, Jemma, I’m so sorry.”

“Fitz, it’s fine, you don’t have to keep apologising to me. Accidents happen.”

“No, I do. Let me just check you out, alright?” He feels around in the dark (carefully) and a small, cold hand grabs his own.

“Fitz-”

“Is it the back of your head or the front?” He follows the arm from the wrist to the shoulder. The shoulder to the hair. His thumb gently grazes her forehead and it must be colder in here than he realises because he thinks he felt her shiver. “There’ll be a first aid kit in here somewhere and-”

“ _Fitz,_ ” she says firmly, but her voice is a little bit thicker than it was before.

“What?”

“You can’t even _see_.”

“What?” He says again, confused. “Oh, I… yeah. It’s dark in here.” And he wonders how he could have forgotten.

He should pull away, he knows that. Except somehow he can’t. He knows all about forces; gravitational pulls and magnetic attractions and yet there’s nothing he knows which explains the way his thumb grazes her forehead and the rest of his fingers are almost tangled in her hair.

Suddenly there are fingers in on his face, also. Cold little fingers that he feels brush over his face, gently probing.

“Jemma-”

“I have to check that you’re alright, Fitz,” she murmurs. “You fell first and I…” There’s an audible swallow. “…just need to check you’re alright.”

Her fingers are cold but her touch burns and there’s no scientific explanation as to why it should feel so good.

“I’m alright, Jemma,” he whispers a little breathlessly.

They’re so close now that he can actually see her from what little light must be able to creep in under the door. Her eyes are wide, searching for something in his face. He doesn’t know what it is, but he wishes he did so he could give it to her freely.

It must be a testament to their synchronicity that they lean in at exactly the same time. The kiss is slow, and sweet and it makes no sense because whenever he has imagined kissing her he imagined it would feel like fireworks but instead it just feels _right._

It should be messy. It’s dark and they’re in a cleaning cupboard on the run from the authorities, they’re on the floor and Jemma’s head is bleeding and yet somehow, in some impossible way, they both know where to put their lips, their hands.

They break apart but keep their hands exactly as they are and with his thumb grazing her forehead and his fingers now most definitely tangled in her hair, Fitz allows himself a smile and the _oh wow_ moment that comes from kissing the person that for years you’ve been trying to convince yourself you’re not in love with.

It’s maybe then, in those few moments after, that they suddenly become aware of the situations and the surroundings.

“I think they might be gone now,” he whispers.

“Yes,” Jemma agrees. “I think they might.”

“We should go.”

“Yes, we should.”

Neither of them move, struck by the fact that as soon as they leave here then everything changes. It’s the moment of no return and he thinks that maybe they both knew that but decided to press on anyway.

In here it’s a little world of their own. Time and everything else is irrelevant, of no consequence. They can stay like this indefinitely.

He looks at her, then. Really looks through the gloom and sees her in the low light. She’s smiling widely, looking up at him through her lashes with this wonder on her face, as though he’s the eighth wonder of the world that she always hoped to find but never thought she could. His heart beats in irregular rhythms, effects he could never hope to understand.

“Let’s just stay here for a bit longer,” he murmurs, finally understanding what it means to lose oneself in the eyes of another.

Their lips meet again, and it’s just as right and perfect as before, and he lets himself get lost in her completely.

Oh, how he wishes he could freeze this moment, this exact moment, and live in it forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day!


	11. early mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for the prompt:   
> "Maybe Number 4: "We slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair"? :)"  
> Set when Fitzsimmons were just Academy babies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For 'ready -to-kick-some-ass' on tumblr who sent me the prompt! I'm so sorry it took me so long, but I hope you like it and it fulfilled the prompt!
> 
> This was actually really fun, and I enjoyed writing it so much! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Jemma blinks awake, blearily looking over at the alarm clock that she hasn’t heard go off. 05.47. _Phew_ she thinks, letting her heartbeat return to pre-panic rate. There is, in her opinion, no panic greater than that of thinking you’ve slept in past your alarm clock.

Sighing contentedly and letting her body melt back into the mattress, she rolls over, intent on getting another forty-three minutes of sleep while she can in order to be properly rested for the chemistry test later. However, instead of rolling over into a nice, empty space she knows there should be, she rolls into something warm, but _solid._

“Unggf,” the solid mass groans, and then rolls over and suddenly her brain clears and Jemma realises that it’s quite alright because it’s Fitz.

She smiles to herself and hums acceptance and is almost back asleep before her eyes pop wide open and her brain goes back to being confused because _what is Fitz doing here? In her bed?_

Jemma frowns and, in another moment of panic, she quickly takes a peak under the bedcovers. _Phew. Clad in pyjamas just as she should be._ Not that she ever thought she would forget doing something like… that, with Fitz, but it’s pre-6am and he’s in her bed and she can’t remember why.

She ignores how she almost accepted it as normal, like she could get used to waking up every day with Fitz by her side.

Grumbling a little at the forty-three minutes of sleep she now won’t be able to achieve, Jemma begins to run through the events of last night that could have possibly led to this conclusion.

They have a chemistry test today, and so Fitz would have come over to study. Her room, because it’s neater and tidier and she has the best notes to study from, even if she does say so herself. She remembers now. They ordered food at a ridiculously late time and then by the time they ate and studied some more it was far too late for a person to be out walking at night and so she offered him to stay. Except Jemma’s never really had anybody to stay before, and while her parents had given her a camp-bed for any guests, the room is tiny and there’s a distinct lack of floor space for such an item.

_“You can just sleep in my bed,” she had said, ever so matter-of-fact. There was really nothing wrong with two best-friends sharing a bed, together. Societal rules were archaic and Jemma prided herself on being above all of that nonsense._

_“Uh,” Fitz had swallowed - gulped, really - and he had looked at the single bed he was sitting on as if it was suddenly something that could kill him. “Uh, yeah, we could.”_

It’s all coming back to her now. The way the two of them getting into their night things and then under the duvet had been strange yet familiar in a way that was puzzling in itself. The way that she had fallen asleep almost instantly, comforted by the breathing that she hadn’t even known was familiar until now.

He's her best-friend, that’s it. That must be why. Jemma’s never really had a best-friend before. Has no idea whether or not you normally feel such a sense of peace whenever you see them, like you could take on the world if they’re right by your side.

She risks a look at Fitz again. He’s snoring softly. Not in an unpleasant way, in fact it’s rather… nice. It’s all quite domestic in a way she didn’t think she’d ever get to experience. In this early morning light with the sun shining just right on his face he almost appears to be glowing.

“Ugh,” he suddenly produces a sound, opening his eyes but squinting a bit. “Bloody sun,” he mumbles, nearly incoherent and apparently to himself. “Waking me up. Never have to worry about it at home since there isn’t any.”

A hand comes up to rub at his eyes and only then does he notice Jemma, eyes widening in alarm in the same sort of panic she had earlier. Only it takes him a moment less to figure it all out, and she sees the tension leave from his body the second he does.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, yawning. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, quite well actually,” she answers, perhaps just a touch too enthusiastic. Chatting like this, both of them facing the other with the duvet pulled up to their shoulders is very intimate in a way that is entirely new, she assumes, for both of them. She can’t decide – though there’s a lack of experience in either area – if this feels more like a childhood sleepover or one of the more adult variety.

“Good,” he yawns, then checks his watch. “Aw, we’ve still got ages until this Chemistry test. That’s fine.” He lets out a breath and snuggles more under the covers.

“Yes, yes, we’ve got quite a bit of time,” she agrees, but doesn’t snuggle under as easily. Jemma wants to say something about getting out of bed to do some last-minute cram studying (she might excel at preparation, but last minute is Fitz’s area of expertise) or showering or eating a nutritious pre-exam breakfast. She wants to say them, even open her mouth to, but the words get caught in her throat and she doesn’t try to force them out.

This entire situation, even though it isn’t really a situation at all, appears to have taken her breath away.

Feelings of something stir deep in her chest. How is Fitz so calm when last night he had almost had an aneurysm and looked as though she had asked him to commit murder when she’d suggested sleeping in the same bed. How dare he have the nerve to be so serene this morning, when she’s mere centimetres from him feeling more confused than she has in her entire life?

Fitz, who had closed both of his eyes in what she assumes is an attempt to go back to sleep, opens them again and frowns.

“Simmons? You okay?”

“Wha- yes, of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” It’s a little bit too far, a little bit too defensive and Fitz’s frown only deepens, genuinely concerned, and it only sends her further into a tailspin.

“You’ve just got that look on your face, you know, when something’s bothering you.”

Something is definitely bothering her, but it’s not as though she can tell him. When she doesn’t answer he inches closer, a feat she didn’t think was possible in this tiny bed.

“Hey,” he says, voice impossibly soft. “What is it?”

“It’s…” and she knows she won’t tell him, not until she knows exactly what’s wrong. She allows her eyes to really look into his, that deep blue that is so enchanting that, if she didn’t know it was scientifically impossible, she swears she could get lost in. It’s with just a touch of longing and regret she says, “it’s nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day!


	12. blankets and pillows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt:  
> FitzSimmons + 077: “Your dad is really excited to meet you soon, it’s driving me crazy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to the anon that sent me this on tumblr:
> 
> hello! Thank you so so much for the prompt! I'm sorry it took me so long to fulfil but I hope you enjoy it :)

“Hey, Jemma? You wanting any more pillows? Snacks? Blankets?”

Jemma looks up from where she sits on the sofa, nestled in amongst two blankets and three pillows and her mug of tea. The eagerness on his face is just a little too endearing for her to deliver a witty comeback.

“I’m alright, Fitz.”

“You’re sure? I’m just about to go to the shops.”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to manage without you for half an hour,” she tells him.

“Alright, fine.” He throws his hands up in a half shrug, the epitome of over-dramatic. “Don’t complain to me when I come back if you’re cold and hungry.” She hears the front door open, his footfalls pause. “Love you,” he shouts to her, waiting until she’s shouted a reply before the slams shut.

“Oh dear,” she half-laughs, half-groans, leaning back into her nest of pillows and blankets. Being eight months pregnant, she assumes, would be hard work already. Being eight months pregnant with a doctor recommending ‘bed rest until the baby’s arrival’, she knows, would be a test of patience. But being eight months pregnant, on bed rest, and with Fitz worrying and fretting over her every couple of minutes is a sheer test of strength because she loves him dearly but the urge to snap at him to stop it becomes a little too powerful sometimes to ignore. Although she has done so. Well, every time apart from once.

She appreciates it all, truly she does. After all, she no longer needs to trek until the end of the road to take the bins out in the chilly February air, and the pillows are a wonder for her sore back. And it’s nice to just be domestic and lazy and not have to worry about things like aliens invading or androids or Gravitonium.

Except she’s rather used to having things to do, things to worry about, and being domestic and lazy is lovely but only for a little while, only while it’s still a novelty. When it becomes your every day then it’s rather _boring._ Fitz gets to worry about her, cater to her every need, while she gets to lie in bed or sit on the sofa and think about how much she _hates_ it.

Not for the first time, she considers using her knowledge of biochemistry to speed up human gestation. Not for the first time, disgruntled, she dismisses it. Far too many ethical considerations and trials to go through first. Besides, it would require going near a lab, something which she is sure would cause Fitz to have a heart attack.

She feels a flutter from her abdomen, little kicks that still take her breath away even though they’ve been happening for months. She laughs, giddy, pressing a hand to her bump.

“Oh, hello,” she grins. “Someone’s awake, are they?” A kick that she takes as an answer.  “Very much so, it appears.”

Ever since the point that their child had developed ears, both Jemma and Fitz have taken to talking to them. They read books, play music, do all of those cheesy parenting things that they never thought they’d have time to. Granted, the books are advanced science, the music carefully composed to be optimal for hearing development but still.

Jemma finds it relaxing, soothing. Frequently she narrates her days, her actions, more becoming an unconscious habit than anything else.

“I’m sorry about your daddy’s yelling,” she tells her unborn child. “And mine, too.”

The kicks soften into tiny flutters and then stop altogether. They usually do anytime either Jemma or Fitz speak to their unborn child directly, almost like their listening intently.

“We’re very excited to meet you.” She strokes her thumb gently across the taut skin, marvelling – not for the first time – at how only a few layers of skin and muscle separate her and join her to her child all at the same time. “This bed rest is just driving us both a bit crazy.”

A kick, as if in agreement. She laughs. “Your dad is really excited to meet you.” She thinks of everything he’s been working on, especially over the past few days. He just wants it to be perfect. Jemma does, too, of course, but Fitz does so with an almost an alarming vivacity that she finds understandable. Although she might wish too, she knows asking him to tone it down a bit would hurt his feelings. Besides, it’s rather adorable. “It’s driving me crazy.”

“Don’t you worry about it, though,” she whispers. “You just take all of the time you need. We can handle bed-rest. We just need you to be strong and healthy.”

Another kick, a powerful one, sending a ripple across her skin. It elicits laugh from Jemma. “Although I can see that you’re doing just fine.”

Jemma closes her eyes, lets the cushions and the blankets soothe her. She doesn’t even realise she’s fallen asleep until all of a sudden she feels a dip in the sofa next to her, a gentle hand on her face.

“Hey, Jemma? You alright?”

Sleepily, she laughs, moves to sit up. “Yes, I’m fine. I was just cosy.”

“I brought you something from the shop,” Fitz tells her.

“What is it this time?” She groans good-naturedly, for every-time he’s gone shopping recently he’s come back with some obscure things that are supposed to make pregnancy easier. For a PhD holding prodigy, he really does fall for all of the advertising tricks when it comes to this.

“I don’t know, some kind of pregnancy cradle thing. Supposed to be good for taking some of the weight for your back. And I got a magazine that has lots of tricks to make the last months easier. Got a ton of things from it. It looks really helpful.” He gives her a kiss before standing up, arching out his back.

“I’m going to go make you some more tea. Need anything else?”

“No, thank you. I think I’m alright,” she tells him, quite believingly, and he wanders back into the kitchen awfully pleased with himself.

She knows that he’ll undoubtedly come back through with about five things that she doesn’t need nor want but she doesn’t really mind. They’re here, together, and that’s everything she cares about.

“See,” she whispers to their child. “We’ll be absolutely fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day!


	13. the Geneva Convention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For @lilsciencequeen who requested:  
> 086: “I knew it was a mistake to get the twins matching clothes.”  
> from a list of babyfic prompts on tumblr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go - I'm so sorry this took so long oh my goodness!   
> I'm not entirely sure the parenting in here is exactly the soundest thing in the world - I mean what do I know and my mum would absolutely have not just withheld dessert but it's meant to be silly and fun and I hope it's alright!  
> Thank you for getting this far, and I hope you enjoy the rest!

“Look, I know it was only one of you that did this.”

Four impossibly blue eyes blink up at him, wide and innocent.

“The other one was out in the garden with your mum. I know it was only one of you.”

“Wasn’t me, daddy.”

“Wasn’t me either, daddy.”

Fitz sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off an oncoming headache. He remembers a time around five years ago, just when they’d found out Jemma was pregnant with twins, when the nurse had told him that ‘people say twins are always easier than one’. It hadn’t made sense then, and it certainly makes no sense now.

He tries again. “Remember when we had that talk about being responsible for our actions?”

Anna tilts her head to the right, and Olivia tilts her head to the left. Or whichever one he thinks is Anna and Olivia.  It always weirds him out a little bit when they do this. Their synchronicity is unnerving.

Fitz is almost at the end of his tether. All he wants to know is who broke the sugar jar. He doesn’t even really care about doling out suitable punishment at this point. He only wants to know who it was.

They stare up at him. They’re identical in every way. The way they look, the way they act, the way they stare up at him and somehow blink at exactly the same time. They’re even identical right down to their outfits; the blue dresses with flowers in the middle not seeming like the smartest purchases now.

“Remind me again why we thought it was a great idea to buy them identical clothes?” He calls to Jemma who chuckles from behind him. “Because now it’s bloody impossible to tell them apart.”

The twins’ mouths drop open at his use of language. At the same second. It makes his head spin.

“If I remember correctly, you were the one who thought it would be cute,” Jemma comments, coming to stand beside him.

“I’m sure I knew it would be a mistake to get them matching outfits,” he grumbles. But then his tone turns to pleading as he remembers the superpower that Jemma always seems to have. “Wait, you always know which one is which.”

She snorts. “You usually know, too.”

“Yeah, well I don’t know now.”

“Does it really matter, Fitz? They both know not to do it again. Don’t you, girls?”

“Yes, mummy,” the parrot in chorus.

A thought occurs to him. “You don’t know which one was out in the garden with you, either. Do you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jemma dismisses with a wave of her hand.

“No,” he guffaws, pointing accusingly. “You don’t. You don’t know if it was Anna or Olivia.” He shakes his head, tutting in disproval. “Tut tut. I’m disappointed. I can’t believe you don’t know.”

“You don’t know which one it is either!” Jemma points out in defence of herself. “And I was doing the gardening. I didn’t look up to see who was playing with the ball.”

“But I never know which one is which. You always know.” He crosses his arms, enjoying the satisfaction far too much.

“I wouldn’t be so pleased about never knowing which of our daughters is which, Fitz,” she says, deadpan.

Well. She has a point there and her smirk tells him that she knows it. He sighs in defeat and turns back to his daughters who have been watching this exchange with barely disguised interest.

“Okay,” he sighs, crouching down to eye level with his children who watch him the way he imagines criminal masterminds watch police officers that they know are never going to be as smart as them. “One last chance. Who broke the sugar jar?”

Both twins raise their chins in open defiance. Instead of a sigh of defeat, Fitz smirks like he’s won.

“Fine,” he says airily, standing back up. “That’s fine. No dessert for either of you tonight. Not unless the one who broke it admits it.”

He expects cries of indignation, uproar at the sheer injustice of it all. He does not expect one of his daughters (Anna, Olivia, at this point he’s going to name them Thing 1 and Thing 2 and be done with it) so sigh ever so knowingly and say, “You can’t do that.”

“Oh,” he laughs disbelievingly. “Can’t I?”

“No,” chimes in the other one. “You can’t. It’s against the Geneva convention.”

Fitz actually cannot believe his ears. The twins are four years old. Four. They have only barely started school. “The _what?_ ”

“Article 33 says that,” the first daughter pauses, screwing up her forehead in concentration. Even in his disbelief, Fitz still thinks it’s the cutest thing. “‘ _No protected person may be punished for an offence he or she has not personally committed._ ’”

“‘ _Collective penalties and likewise all measures of intimidation or of terrorism are prohibited,_ ’” her sister adds on.

Fitz pinches the bridge of his nose, breathes deeply and counts to five. He turns to Jemma, who’s trying so very hard not to giggle behind him.

“That’s you that is,” he accuses. “No way they get this gene from me.”

“Oh, Fitz. Do let it go and let’s all just go and have some dinner and dessert afterwards.”

And she walks away, the girls following her, throwing knowing grins over their shoulders as they do so.

“Geniuses,” he mutters. “Bloody evil geniuses.”


	14. one more story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for @jcmmavclours on tumblr who requested prompt number 100: “Okay fine, one more story, but then you really have to go to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ta-da! Here's your prompt - finally! I'm so sorry it took me so long! Time just completely got away from me. It's fluffy and cute and gave me squishy feelings and I hope you like it! Thank you so much for requesting it!

“And they all lived happily ever after.”

Fitz shuts the storybook with a resounding clap and looks over to Sarah, who’s nestled into his left side, her favourite stuffed toy under her arm. Her bed should be too small for both of them but somehow, they make it fit.

“Daddy,” she begins, snuggling in closer. “Can we read another one, please?”

“Sarah,” he sighs, “this is the third one tonight. You won’t have any new ones left for tomorrow night.”

“But please?” She pouts. Lately she’s been going through a phase where please seems to be the magical word that gets her whatever she wants. It’s cute. Him and Jemma have fawned over her for it, but this is the first time he’s had to say no.

“It’s late,” he tries to reason. “And your granny is coming early tomorrow. Surely you don’t want to be tired when she comes?” He leans in conspirationally and says in a whisper, “I hear she’s taking you to the park.”

“ _Really?”_ She says, wide-eyed, fizzing with excitement.

_Aw, great work, Fitz. You’ve just gone and gotten her more hyped up now._

“Yeah, but you have to go to sleep or otherwise you won’t enjoy it,” he says knowingly, putting the book on her bedside table and making to get out of her bed.

“But another story would _really_ help me sleep,” Sarah wheedles. “Just _one_?” She holds up one finger, to demonstrate how really very reasonable she is being and how just one more story isn’t that much.

Only their daughter would bargain with the tenacity of a terrier. Though it hurts him to do so, Fitz holds firm. “But you’ve already had _three,”_ he tells her, holding up three fingers to show that’s a lot of stories for one night. Standing up, he tucks her in, kisses her on top of her two plaits. “Three stories is a perfect number to go to sleep to.”

“Four is an _even_ number.” Sarah puffs out her chest, quite proud of the fact she knows. “They’re the best.”

“Three is a better number for stories. Especially at bedtime.”

“Just one more. Please, daddy, please.”

At that moment Jemma walks by Sarah’s open bedroom door and, obviously hearing the presenting arguments from both sides, she steps in.

“What’s going on in here? Isn’t it bedtime?”

“ _Thank you,_ ” Fitz exhales in relief, glad to have his wife on his side.

Sarah, of course, plays it dirty. In her saddest voice, with her puppy dog orbs on full form and with the most melancholy put she says, “Daddy won’t read me a story.”

_“What?”_

“What do you mean he won’t read you a story?” Jemma asks, concerned mother mode switching on in an instant. She moves over to sit on the empty space in Sarah’s bed that Fitz has just vacated.

“I… I asked him for a story, and he said no.”

 _Oh she’s good. Really good._ “That’s not what happened, Jemma. You know that.”

Her eyebrows raise and she turns to him, unimpressed. “Well what did happen then?”

“She’s already had _three_.” He finds himself holding his fingers up, demonstrating wildly.

“Is that true?” Jemma asks, switching back to Sarah with the unimpressed look and raised eyebrows. Fitz feels a moment of victory.

“Yes,” Sarah says slowly. “But four is an even number.”

“That is very true,” Jemma says thoughtfully, and that’s how Fitz knows he’s lost the fight. Whatever victory he felt is being slowly drained and replaced with resignation because there is no arguing with two Fitzsimmons women.

Jemma turns to Fitz with a hopeful look on her face. “Perhaps daddy could read _one_ more story then? Just a small one.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “I thought you were meant to be on my side.” It’s not even as though he wanted to say no to a story in the first place. He was just trying to be a good, responsible parent. Bad cop doesn’t suit him.

Since Jemma’s on board he rolls his eyes. “Okay,” he relents. “Fine. You can have one more story.”

“But then you really must go to bed,” Jemma adds in and Fitz grins because _yes, we’re back to being a team._

“Yay!” Sarah cheers in victory and Jemma moves to Sarah’s other side to Fitz can sit back down in his original seat. There’s now three of them squidged together in a single bed, a Fitzsimmons family sandwich, but somehow it’s not uncomfortable and feels exactly right.

He grabs the book from the bedside table and opens to a story that they haven’t read yet. “You ready?” he asks his daughter, who nods vigorously. Jemma laughs at her enthusiasm and lets him know that she’s ready, too.

“Okay then,” he clears his throat, holding the book in a very theatrical way. “Let’s begin. Once upon a time, there was….”


	15. live grenades and thunderstorms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from jemmvstraci on tumblr who said:  
> 'Hallowee!! I was wondering if you're up to it, could you write something with May and Fitzsimmons baby? Something cute and fluffy maybe ❤ thank you!!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I finished it! 
> 
> We finally got wifi in our new flat today and so I was able to finish this and post it! I'm so sorry it took me so long (my muse went on holiday and just never came back and not that I blame them but even so) but over the past few days I pushed myself and here we are!
> 
> I hope it's fluffy enough and cute enough for you! It was a little outside of my comfort zone, and so I hope I've done May justice. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the prompt, and I hope you enjoy it :)

She knows as soon as they come to her with their sheepish smiles and hopeful eyes what they want.

“It would really be a big help to us,” Simmons tells her, smiling too widely.

“Yeah, we thought my mum would be able to take her, but she’s decided to go on a camping holiday with her friends,” Fitz adds, laughing nervously. “And we kind of don’t have any other options.”

“ _Fitz_ ,” Jemma hisses, thwacking him on the arm before turning back. “Not to say you were our last option, Agent May, of course you weren’t. It’s just, well, we thought that it, um-”

“We didn’t want to interrupt you unnecessarily,” Fitz finishes for her. “’Cause you’re busy with erm _things._ ”

They look at each other, eyes wide, communicating telepathically in a conversation May is not privy to. Eventually, they turn back, and in sync say, “Please.”

“I suppose so,” she says, not giving anything away. May’s heard them for the past day and a half, whispering and planning and wondering what it would take. Their daughter is entering her troublesome toddler stage and handing her to anybody is the equivalent of handing them a grenade with the pin pulled out. May isn’t scared of grenades, and she certainly isn’t frightened of a two-year-old with a temporary attitude problem.

“Really?” Fitz asks, head cocked to the side, seemingly puzzled that anybody other than someone who had to would take on their daughter at the moment.

“Ugh, Fitz.” Jemma thwacks him on the arm again while rolling her eyes. “Thank you ever so much, Agent May! We must check some times and things and we’ll get back to you. We really do appreciate it.”

“So much,” Fitz says, clapping his hands together. “You’ll have so much fun.” His tone is sarcastic, and May waits until Jemma had dragged him away and hissing to him about what to say in front of others before she allows herself a small smile.

There really was no doubt she was going to say yes. Even though she acts like a little horror at the moment, she loves her all the same.

-x-

This is what she overhears when she turns up to babysit:

“Sarah, we use our _words_ when we are unhappy. We do _not_ throw Mr Jingles down the stairs, do you understand?”

May raises an eyebrow, not knowing who Mr Jingles is but hoping he is a toy and not some poor hamster or anything of the like that’s taken an unfortunate dive. She doesn’t worry too much about it – Fitz’s voice didn’t sound high enough for the issue to be that his daughter has turned into a murderer.

Jemma appears at the door, nicely made up, hair curled gently around her shoulders. She holds a brown teddy bear in her hands.

May raises an eyebrow. “Mr Jingles I presume?”

“What?” Jemma looks down. “Oh, yes. There’s just been a little issue about bath time, that’s all.” She waves dismissively. “Nothing to worry about.”

Just then there is an almighty crash and what May assumes to be the sound of several bath toys making the tumultuous descent down the stairs also. Jemma’s smile remains frozen in place, a little too wide and manic.

“It’s fine,” Fitz calls. “Everything under control.”

“Under control,” May repeats. “Sure.”

Jemma takes no notice and manages to unfreeze her face, ushering May in and running through a fairly impressive list of dos and don’ts and things to beware of and things Sarah’s been up to lately (of which there is rather a lot) and the important numbers.

“Of course, we know you’re more than capable of taking care of Sarah,” Jemma says hurriedly, as though worried May will change her mind after hearing the commotion. “We aren’t doubting your abilities. She’s just in, well, a _stage_ right now, I suppose you could call it.” She laughs nervously. “But Fitz is just putting her to bed now and so everything should run remarkably smoothly from now on.”

The way she anxiously glances at the clock and the stairs doesn’t give May much hope but she only nods.

It takes Fitz fifteen minutes to appear. He nods at May and whispers something to Jemma, who rolls her eyes as if she can’t help herself. But then she composes her features and smiles as she grabs her bag and coat and prompts Fitz to get moving and do the same.

“Right, we’ll be off then.,” Jemma says brightly. “Sarah should sleep now but if she doesn’t then there’s a list of things that might work on the coffee table in the living room.”

Something that sounds like a derisive _oh aye, she’ll sleep alright_ is muttered under Fitz’s breath but May pretends she hasn’t heard it and instead nods dutifully.

“The weather forecast said there might be some thunder tonight, but she usually sleeps right through thunder so there’s nothing to worry about,” Jemma continues and turns to Fitz, both nodding at the same time. “Well, I think that’s us. Please, please call us if you need anything.”

“Really, you’ll have _so_ much fun. She’s a little angel right now. Sleeps through the night all the time.” But then suddenly Fitz turns solemn. “Thank you so much for taking her. You’re a lifesaver.”

“I’ll be fine,” May says confidently. Sarah’s just a baby. A strong-willed little girl, absolutely, but a little girl all the same. This is Melinda May they’re talking to. She’s handled far worse and she wonders if Fitzsimmons have perhaps forgotten.

The worry only starts to appear when, on her way out the door, Jemma pauses and says, “Oh, just to let you know that the walls are soundproofed so if she stars to properly cry then don’t worry, the neighbours won’t hear. The police shouldn’t appear again but if they do, please let us know.”

May nods, takes it in her stride and waits until the door is closed before taking a deep, cleansing breath and wondering just what she’s let herself in for.

-x-

It starts off quite well.

May checks the baby monitor and sees Sarah sleeping peacefully, so she decides to do a spot of tai chi. As gently as she can she moves back the living room table to give herself some space and begins the routines she has practiced for so long. She half expects a cry or a yell to interrupt her deep breathing, but nothing comes and so she’s able to continue and afterwards feel decidedly more prepared to handle whatever hell is in store for her.

Itching for something to do, to make herself useful even though she’s only got one task tonight, May sets around tidying up whatever seems out of place. It’s not her job, not the favour she’s promised, but lately she cannot stand being _idle_ and if Sarah is being as a nightmare as is rumoured, then tidying up the Fitzsimmons house only helps them as much as, in this moment, it will help her.

An hour passes, and she has tidied all the ground floor. Washed dishes, dried them, out them away. Folded the washing. Swept corners that have probably never seen a dustpan before. It feels so decidedly grandmotherly that it makes her smile, even when she’s fishing a long forgotten gummy sweet from between the sofa cushions.

-x-

She leaves it an hour and a half before she uses every single stealth skill she possesses to check on the little devil.

Sarah’s door has been left slightly ajar, possibly for this very purpose, and because this is Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons’ house it doesn’t even squeak a bit as May gently pushes it open further.

There’s a nightlight plugged in, throwing soft, golden stars on the walls and May watches as they illuminate her little charge who remains fast asleep, snuggled in bed with her stuffed toy dog clutched tightly in her arm. She snuffles, and May’s heart jumps, but then she settles again and, knowing without a doubt she is safe and alright, May retreats and gently shuts the door behind her.

-x-

For lack of something else to do, or more like everything else having been done, May decides to enjoy the television.

Only when does she turn it on and have the remote in her hand does she realise how long it’s been before she’s had the time or the inclination to do such a thing. She surfs the channels before settling for a mindless comedy show that turns out not to be very funny at all, keeping the baby monitor firmly in her hands and glancing at it every few minutes.

-x

The scream followed by a dull _thump_ that rattles the ceiling comes just after half past nine.

May is on her feet immediately, moving through the house and up the stairs like a worried parent instead of the way a specially trained agent would when faced with an unknown situation. A special agent would be calm, would assess the probabilities and normally, she would be one of them. Instead, her heart is beating rapidly in her chest and she takes the stairs two at a time and instead of thinking of perfectly normal reasons for the noises all she can think of is what she will do to those who are unwise enough to lay a hand on Sarah Fitzsimmons.

She bursts into the nursery, flicking on the light, half expecting to see masked figures clad in black. Instead she just sees a very bewildered little girl, lying on the floor by her bed, a lump already forming on her forehead. Sarah gapes at her for a few seconds, before going back to sobbing.

May, relief flooding her veins in such a pleasant way, crouches down on the floor next to her, gently pressing a hand to Sarah’s face.

“What happened here, huh?” Sarah’s cheeks feel hot beneath her hands and she gently presses around the lump on her head.

“Bad dreams,” Sarah wails. “Woke up.”

“And you fell out of bed?” Sarah nods mournfully. “Hit your head?” She nods again.

May gently presses the lump on her head. It’s not too big, not soft and will probably be gone within a couple of hours. It might leave an impressive bruise, but she breathes easy because bruises can be dealt with. She gathers Sarah on her lap, letting her snuggle into her chest and softly the sobs become hiccups which become snuffles. They sit like that for a few moments, both recovering from something they obviously thought was worse than it is.

“What do you say we go put an ice-pack on that, yeah? I’ll bet your mom’s got the best kind in the freezer.”

Sarah nods against May’s shirt but shows no inclination of moving herself and so May begins the delicate task of getting them both up from the floor without letting go. It takes a few minutes, hissing as a niggling pain flairs up in her less than perfect knee, but eventually she gets them up and begins the different task of manoeuvring them both down the stairs in the dark.

Setting Sarah down on the kitchen table she looks through the freezer for an ice-pack.

“Ladybird one,” Sarah mumbles, legs swinging half-heartedly to and fro.

It’s handier to know what she’s looking for and eventually May digs up a frozen ladybird the size of her palm. _Of course, Simmons. Of course._ She holds it up for Sarah to see. “Ladybug one.”

Sarah eyes it critically, and May almost expects resistance judging from the commotion that bath time brought about but the toddler says nothing as she wraps a tea towel around the ice-pack and presses it gently to her forehead.

“There,” she murmurs. “That’ll make it feel much better.”

“Plaster on it?” Sarah asks, looking up at May with those blue eyes that are so much like Fitz’s it makes it hard to say no.

“Sure.” Luckily during Jemma’s ‘induction’ she had pointed out where the first aid kit was kept. May digs around, because with a ladybird ice-pack surely there’s more than just the standard issue plasters. A cartoon one catches her eye and she snatches it, holds it out to Sarah victoriously.

“This one do?”

“Peppa pig!” Sarah claps her hands in delight.

“Guessing that’s a yes, then.”  And she affixes it atop of the much less swollen lump with a kiss placed on it afterwards. “There. All better.”

A live grenade but soft as a kitten, Sarah puts her arms around May’s waist. May responds by holding her tightly, taking a moment, memorising its softness, but then says, “Back to bed.”

The change is immediate. A kitten but with claws. Sarah recoils as if she has been stung. “No.”

“Sarah.” A warning. _Don’t mess with me, kid. Your parents are one thing, but I am entirely another._ “It’s time for bed.”

“Nope.” She crosses her arms, raises her eyebrows. Stubbornness. A trait that hails from both the Fitz and Simmons’ sides. One that their daughter will have in spades. “Not tired.” She narrows her eyes in a glare. “Not going.”

“You are going,” May says, still patient but voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “It’s bedtime. Your head will feel better if you sleep.”

“Don’t care.” If May has met her match with anyone, it’s with this child. Sarah’s voice is even. “I don’t want to go to bed.”

May has visions of carrying this child kicking and screaming to her room and though she is perfectly capable of doing it, she’d really rather not. She sighs, debating in her head the pros and cons of such a thing.

Luckily, Sarah saves her from having to worry about it, because she says in a much softer voice with her arms uncrossed and eyebrows down. “Please. No bed.”

Achingly familiar with the tone of voice and the tears in the eyes, May crouches down to be on eye level with her and says. “Nightmares?” A mournful nod. “Yeah, I get that.”

It makes it easier. No way will she put a child back into nightmares, not when she used to so desperately want to escape her own.

“Alright. We’ll watch some TV together. You okay with that?”

A mumbled “Yes,” and May nods _okay_ and puts Sarah on her hip, taking them both to the living room and setting them up with blankets on the sofa and quickly fetching Sarah’s stuffed dog. In a strange kind of way, she’s excited. She’s never had a sleepover with a child before, at least not that she can remember.

She sits and gets comfortable and lets Sarah cuddle into her side.

“Thank you,” Sarah mumbles into her shirt, squeezing her tight.

“No problem,” May says softly, flicking the channel to something child friendly and telling herself the sudden bright light is the reason tears have appeared in her eyes.

-x-

Simmons wasn’t kidding about the thunder being forecast. The relentless booming hurts her ears. The lightning casts horrifying shadows. The wind that has accompanied them sounds as though it’s trying to blow the house down, and, if it were anybody else’s house, she’d wonder if it would.

Simmons, however, must have been kidding about how Sarah would sleep through it.

She awakes with a start at the first clap of thunder from where she had been asleep in May’s side, and instantly scrunches up her face in discontentment. A second later, in sync with the second clap, she begins to wail.

May brings her onto her lap and holds her tight, wondering what to do. It’s getting late. Soon her parents will be home. She knows Fitzsimmons wouldn’t judge her, but she feels it’s important to have Sarah asleep by then. Mainly, she doesn’t want to prove them right.

“There,” she says lowly. “It’s alright. Just thunder.”

Sarah continues to cry, obviously knowing it’s thunder but not really caring. She puts her hands over her ears.

“Don’t like it,” she sobs. “Scary. Like a monster.”

Unsure if she’s acting out in the presence of company or if the nightmares earlier and the resulting bump on the head have spooked her, May says nothing about how she’s supposed to usually sleep through it. Instead, she presses her tighter to her chest. “It’s not a scary monster. It’s science. Surely your mom and dad have told you what thunder really is?”

Sarah looks up at her, wide eyed, still sobbing but paying attention. Invoking the names of parents is obviously something that must be given attention. She shakes her head.

“They haven’t?” May feigns shock. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

With one hand she digs her phone out of her pocket, praying that the storm will still allow her to Google thunderstorms. It takes a few minutes, but eventually she manages to navigate her way to a site that has the title ‘Science Made Simple’. _Well thank God for that_. She looks down to Sarah, who has tucked her head beneath May’s chin. “What do you say we learn about what it is together?”

“Okay,” Sarah agrees slowly.

Relieved that her plan appears to be acceptable, May squints and begins to read from the webpage as if it were a bedtime story.

“Thunder is the sound that comes with lightning. But what makes Thunder? Well, let’s read on and find out.”

Sarah’s quieter now, enchanted by May’s sing-song voice and the brightly coloured images on the screen. May angles it so it’s easier for her to see.

“Sounds are made up of things called vibrations. These travel through the air until they reach your ears. Lightning is a lot of electricity being discharged at once, and as it passes through the air it causes particles to vibrate. It also hears up the air around it, because lightning is very hot. Hot air expands which pushes apart the air particles and causes even more vibrations.”

The website then includes some ClipArt images, showing dark clouds with lightning bolts shooting from them. When pressed, they make a cartoon thunder noise and May gives her phone to Sarah to press a few times and she giggles the more she presses.

“See, thunder isn’t so scary now, is it?” Gently May takes her phone back and begins to continue reading about the speed of light versus the speed of sound and the myth of counting the seconds in between the thunder and lightning to say how far away it is. Sarah listens on, comforted by the science. Definitely a Fitzsimmons. She snuggles into May’s chest.

It makes her heart feel so warm and, for the briefest of seconds, she wonders if this is what she could have had all these years ago. Is this what it would have been? Her and Andrew and her own child, the three of them tucked onto the sofa reading about the science of thunderstorms. The image is nice, cosy, even though a little bit heart-breaking. She allows herself to get lost in it, just for a bit.

Sarah jolts her out of it, sleepily mumbling about her mother.

“They’ll be back soon,” May whispers, into her baby curls. “But I’m here until they are.”

-x-

Fitz and Simmons return at half past eleven, fearing the worst. They tiptoe through the front door, seeing the tv casting a blue glow around the living room, and wonder what carnage is awaiting them tonight. The fear is evident on their faces as they look around, entirely unsure who would have won the battle between Sarah Fitzsimmons and Melinda May.

“At least the police aren’t waiting for us,” Fitz jokes.

“We don’t know what else might be,” Jemma returns, and peers around, the look in her eyes suggesting she’s expecting blood or worse.

“I’ll go upstairs and check on Sarah,” Fitz volunteers, already on the first step.

“There’s no need for that, Fitz.”

There’s a laugh in Jemma’s voice and he steps away from the stairs and joins her in the doorway of the living room.

May is lying on the sofa, head at one end and feet at the other, Sarah snuggled on top of her, May’s arms protectively holding her in place so she doesn’t roll off. There’s nothing particularly odd about it, nothing so obscure, and if it was Daisy then they probably wouldn’t bat an eye. It’s just a little bit different, seeing their team-member, someone they would consider their boss, however much like family she may be, lying on their sofa asleep with their daughter as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m not waking her up,” Fitz says, shaking his head and taking a step back. “We can wait for them to wake up themselves.”

“Oh shush. It’s cute,” Jemma coos, and snaps a picture with her phone.

“I’ll let you keep that one, Simmons,” May suddenly says, without opening her eyes.

Both Jemma and Fitz jump suddenly. Jemma almost drops her phone. Fitz’s mouth hangs open.

“Thank you,” Jemma says, automatically, going to rush into the room but Fitz’s hand on her arm stops her. “Was everything alright? She didn’t cause you much trouble, did she? We’re truly trying to work on her manners and-”

“Shh,” May whispers harshly, cracking open one eye. “Can’t you see we’re sleeping?”

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry. I suppose we’ll just,” she looks to Fitz, “speak to you in the morning, then. Goodnight?”

“Goodnight,” May murmurs, listening to them going upstairs and talking in hushed whispers that aren’t really hushed at all. She looks down to Sarah, soundly asleep on her chest, thumb resting at the side of her mouth.

May’s mouth quirks up into a small, sleepy smile. “That’s how it’s done, kid,” she whispers, and presses a kiss to Sarah’s head, knowing without a doubt she’d come back to babysit anytime at all. 


	16. dark and sunny mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fs+ 'can't you stay a little longer' from angsty tumblr prompt list for @jeemmasimmons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your prompt!  
> This one just spilled out of me a lot faster than I was expecting! It was kind of fun, actually!  
> It's AU. Not entirely sure which U it belongs in but I'll leave that up to you.  
> It is from the angsty tumblr prompt list thingy so just be aware of that!  
> I hope you like it <3

The sunlight filters through the curtains and awakens Jemma from sleep. Smiling softly at the warmth that kisses her face, she rolls over, ready to share in the delight, but instead only feels an empty space.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

Fitz is already buttoning his shirt. Jemma can smell his soap and aftershave. Water droplets cling to the edges of his hair. A warm, pleasant feeling floods through her at the sight.

Sighing, she pushes a strand of hair away from her eyes to get a better look. “No, the sun did.”

He smiles at her, full of adoration. It’s a feeling she wishes she could frame, hang it on a wall. Perhaps that way she would feel less lonely when he is gone. “It’s only early,” he tells her, picking up his tie from the floor. “You could go back to sleep if you wanted.”

And why would she want to? They don’t have long together, and she doesn’t want to miss a moment of the time they have left.

“But I don’t want to.” Jemma doesn’t risk a glance at the bedside clock, can’t bear the countdown. Instead she tucks her knees closer to her chest. “When do you leave?”

Fitz checks his watch. It’s not his watch; not the scratched, silver one that runs two minutes slow but that he’ll never get rid of because she bought him it for his birthday when he was eighteen. No, this one is elegant; a brown leather strap with a gold-rimmed face. Expensive times ten. One that professionals wear.

“Soon.”

She can’t help it – she huffs. “That’s not an answer, Fitz.”

He grins at her. “I know. But knowing a precise time won’t make it any easier.”

No, she concedes. It won’t. Nothing makes their separation easier. It’s been so long now, that she though she’d be used to it. But every time he comes to leave she finds her stomach sinking and a sick feeling spreading throughout her. He leaves and every-time a little part of her is incomplete, until he comes back with the missing piece and she is whole again.

What a ridiculous way to feel, she knows. It’s extraordinary, the feeling of never being able to live without someone.

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” She pleads, longing to reach out an arm and pull him back to bed, away from the leather-watch wearing professionals that desperately want him for themselves.

His whole face softens. She can tell he feels bad, but he continues to do up his tie. “You know I would if I could, Jemma.”

“Then why not? Why not give it all up and come and stay here with me? I’m doing more than well enough to support the both of us. We’d be fine while you searched for something new.”

But even as she says it she knows he’ll never say yes. This argument is well worn. He might love her, but the loyalty which she so loves in him is what keeps him at his father’s – now his – company. If everything wasn’t so tied up in it, if his mother hadn’t told him that she was so proud of the man he’d become before she died then things might have been different. After university, after she had moved away he might have moved with her. They might have gone together.

Now, as it stands, this is all they have. These stolen moments where he can escape the cities, escape the corporate world and they can just be _them_ again like when they were children. It’s not much, but it’s something. She’d rather have this than have nothing, after all.

“Jemma…” he begins.

“It’s alright. I know,” she says and smiles because she cannot quite mean it. She loves his loyalty, but hates that it takes him so far away from where he wishes to be.

“There’s meant to be a meeting in Paris next week.” He takes the comb she keeps for him from her dresser and begins to pull it through his hair. “A five day thing but I could probably get it done in three. I could come see you then?”

Her eyes begin to smart, and she presses her face into her pillow. It’s not what he means but what he says that stings ever so badly.

“Jemma?” His voice hovers uncertainly, but she hears him toe on his shoes and pull his jacket on over his shirt.

Turning back to face him, with trembling lips she warns him, “I’m not some kept woman, Fitz. Not some mistress.”

“I _know.”_

“Do you? Because you’re beginning to make me feel rather like one.”

His mouth hangs in an ‘o’ shape and she feels horribly guilty. These are their last moments together and now she has gone and spoiled them with honesty. That’s too much for them. They’re better with things left unsaid.

“This isn’t just sex for me, Fitz,” she whispers, and out of all the confidences they have shared, all of words that have gone between them, this might be the rawest.

“Is that what you think – oh, no, Jemma. No, I only-”

But the shrill ring of his mobile phone cuts them off. It’s not his personal use one – with the cracked screen protector and Dr Who case that she bought him as a joke and he never took off – but the sleek, silver one that houses technology that costs more than her car. It’s case is black, plain. Dull.

“Get it.” She waves away, feigns indifference. “It’ll be important.”

The call lasts ten minutes. He comes back in a rush, sentences and feet tripping over themselves in haste.

“I’m sorry. There’s been a big emergency and apparently I’m the only one that’s bloody available to deal with it even though technically I pay them to deal with it so now,” he faces her, chest heaving, eyes a little heavy, “now I have to go.”

She smiles, softly, gets out of bed to help him gather all of his things. Picking up the pieces like she always will, no matter what adjective adorns their relationship. “Didn’t you always have to go?”

“Yeah I… I suppose I did.”

Softly, ever so softly, she presses her fingertips to his cheek and reaches in to kiss him. He tastes like he always does and truly she doesn’t know how she could ever live without him. If this is what she gets then she will be content with it. If this is all she is allowed then she will treasure it, lest the universe decide she is ungrateful and take him away.

It’s a minute before she can trust herself to speak again. “You should be going. They might start to wonder where you are.”

He mumbles a ‘yeah’ and phones for a taxi. It comes far too soon and she holds back her emotions as he kisses her goodbye and promises to call. She watches from her bedroom window as he loads his things into it. She sees as he turns back to face her and gives her a little half-wave and a soft smile before climbing in and shutting the door.

She stays as it drives away, until it becomes nothing more than a black speck on the horizon. And then she goes back to bed.

 

 


	17. maybe, just maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fs + 'wanna grab a drink' from the tumblr prompt list for @bluepianoguyismael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your prompt!   
> This one is from the angsty prompt list *but* this one isn't angsty! I didn't really know how to make this one angsty and this is the idea I had, so I hope it's alright!   
> Also, I just discovered the list was actually 'fluffy AND angsty' prompts which I probably should have read better but it doesn't clarify which is which so it's totally all fine.  
> I hope you enjoy :)

She sees him standing alone, cut apart from the throng, and instantly knows she wants more.

The music is loud. Not objectively so but it thrums in her ears, reverberates around her skull until she can feel it in her molars. Jemma would like nothing more than to thank Bobbi for hosting a wonderful party and then quietly steal away into the night and go back to her empty, quiet flat where she can actually hear herself think. She would like to, but she knows she won’t.

The bar lighting is low and yellow and maybe, just maybe it makes her think of the movies. The music changes to something soft, something slow and with the meagre amount of alcohol she has drunk finally having an effect on her brain she allows herself to sway softly and look around.

And she meets the eyes of a man.

He looks vaguely familiar, in that kind of way where you know you’ve seen someone before, but you can’t, for the life of you, work out when. His eyes are blue, she can tell from all the way across the crowded room. He notices her, becomes self-conscious and, biting his lip, looks away. Then he looks back.

Jemma smiles. Perhaps her first real smile of the evening. He smiles at her in response, mirroring. He has a nice smile, she thinks. A real one. His eyes twinkle.  Every self-conscious feeling she’s felt tonight melts away, her brain forgetting to worry about her dress matching her shoes and if she looks alright with her hair curled or not. Suddenly the adage about getting lost in someone’s eyes sounds like the wisest thing she knows.

Should she go over? She’s not one to be shy, far from it. To have gotten as far as she has she cannot be shy, cannot allow doubt to cloud her movements. Yet, now, instead of going over and even saying ‘hello’ she hangs back, ducks her head away slightly. His eyes are so blue, so dizzying. It’s like a drug, one that she’s not sure she wants to come off.

Someone calls to her, beckons her over, but in an uncharacteristic fit of bad manners she ignores them, doesn’t move from her spot at the edge of the bar. He’s still looking at her; she feels his eyes follow her as she asks the bartender for another drink. She downs half of it in a very unladylike gulp, turning her head as she does so, hoping it’ll make her brave.

_You’re a grown, modern woman, Jemma Anne Simmons. What the bloody hell is wrong with you?_

Honestly, she doesn’t know the answer. Nobody has ever had this effect on her before. Her hands shake slightly and she grips her glass tighter, fights down what feels like a mild tornado in her stomach. Looks back, sees his lips turn into a half smile, and maybe he laughs a little, too.

Her stomach flips and she feels herself smile completely involuntarily. She almost wants to tell herself to get a grip of herself, that for goodness sake he’s a man that she knows nothing about. How can she be this attracted to him? How can she be this nervous? It’s preposterous.

But… but she wants to know him. She wants to hear him speak, wonder what secrets those irises hide. She wants to know if maybe, just maybe, he’s a real person, this man she locked eyes with across a crowded room.

Jemma watches him take a deep breath and put down his own drink. Licking his lips he begins to walk towards her and oh how her heart starts beating with the rhythm of a runaway train. Is this it? Has her choice been made for her? She could turn away, she knows she could. He is, after all, only a man. But she finds herself hoping he’s coming over to speak to her, hoping that he’s here to ask her name, maybe ask if she’d like a drink.

And maybe, just maybe, she’d say yes.

-x-

He’s bored, incredibly so, when he sees her.

It’s late, not terribly so but later than he’s been out in a while. Fitz has drunk more tonight than he has in a while (again, not that much) and his brain is pleasantly buzzed. It makes this boredom more tolerable, makes the music somehow bearable to his ears.

He shouldn’t have come, he knows that. Shouldn’t have but did anyway, to help Lance try to win back his ex-girlfriend by crashing her birthday party. A plan, he knows now, that would have the same outcome whether it worked or not. He saw them both steal away an hour ago, and by now they’re probably back at the flat he shares with Lance. There are goings on there that he would rather not return to, and so he stays right where he is.

Bored, passing time, he tries to focus on interesting things. The intricately carved clock on the wall catches his attention, and for a while he tries to figure out the mechanical pieces hidden within; how they’d slot together. It works, but only for a bit – his brain is like soft jelly, cannot quite hold the thoughts – and so he looks around again.

And catches the eyes of a woman.

She’s looking at him the way you do when trying to figure out if you know someone. Her look is intense and, not thinking clearly, he bites his lip and looks away, suddenly shy. But curiosity gets the better of him and he looks back. She smiles.

And this is how he knows, instantly, that he’s never seen her before. Now way would he ever forget a smile as bright as hers.

He feels himself smile, too, an involuntary response. Fitz doesn’t think he’s smiled at anybody tonight, at least not as readily as he does now.

Suddenly he feels quite dizzy, high on the smile from a stranger. A very beautiful stranger. It would be easy enough to go over, say hello, introduce himself. They could make decent conversation; she might be a friend of Bobbi’s, here for the party. They might have a few interests in common.

But something holds him back He doesn’t want to ruin it, dispel the magic. At least now, between them, the air is charged and thick and he can dream. Spoiling the dream, the image, by opening his mouth, would ruin any might have been.

But he doesn’t want to hang back, and he watches as she turns away, asks for another drink, downs it in an impressive gulp. There’s a tie, he feels to her. A bind. An invisible force that is unlike anything he has ever felt before.

Even from all the way across this crowded room he can see her grip her glass, and she makes such a funny facial expression that he can’t help but laugh a little. She looks at him then, sees him, and he hopes that she knows there’s nothing malicious about it.

That, actually, it’s one of the most adorable things he’s ever seen.

It’s maybe this facial expression, the way she gulps her drink as if she, too, is nervous for something, that makes him summon up the courage. She is human, a real woman, not some romantic dream conjured up in his brain. He has everything to gain and nothing to lose. Tonight is the night for such chances, with soft music and soft lighting making him brave, making him feel like anything could be within his grasp.

Fitz puts down his drink, takes a deep breath, summoning courage from everywhere he can. He moves forward, slicing through the crowd. It parts easily and it feels a little bit like destiny.

Her hair curls gently against her neck and she smiles at him while biting her lip and his heart beats wildly in his chest. It’s her eyes, though. There’s something about them. Intelligence, most definitely, but something else. He’d very much like to find out what it is.

Fitz takes another deep breath. _No going back now_ , he tells himself. _Run and jump and do not look back._ Finds himself uttering intelligible words, hoping against hope they’re alright.

“Can I get you a drink?”


	18. as long as there's you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @jemmvstraci who requested Academy Fitzsimmons feels + 'Why are you crying?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for your prompt - sorry it took me so long!   
> This is angsty but also not quite angsty, if you know what I mean. More hurt/comfort but there's something there.   
> I hope it's alright and I hope you enjoy :)

They sit together on the stairs in one of the back hallways, numb toes and numb mouths. It’s quiet, the only sound in the past minute has been a door slamming three floors down. Too quiet. The air hangs thick between them.

Fitz is first because he always is. He hates even the suggestion that there is anything wrong between them. There isn’t, of course. Things are wrong, that’s for certain, but not between them.

“We should probably go back, soon.”

Jemma’s foot has fallen asleep, but she can’t quite muster the energy to shake it back to life. “We most probably should.”

“They’ll be wondering where we are.”

It’s limp and lifeless, a dead weight at the end of her leg. If she moves now the feeling will be overwhelming. “Yes, I imagine they will be.”

Her answers are unsatisfactory, she knows. Not entirely fair. He’s just trying to be helpful, trying to keep life going as smoothly as it ever can in this unpredictable world. She’s grateful, she really is. Somehow, she just can’t quite muster the energy to care about their group project right now, or what the rest of the group will think they are doing at this minute. Silly things like that seem so petty now, so meaningless.

Fitz huffs, begins to tap the toe of his shoe against the edge of the step. It’s not that loud, but it bounces off all the things left unsaid and is deafening to her ears.

“Simmons…” He starts, but then stops, unsure of how to follow through.

“I know, I know,” she tells him quickly, staring straight ahead into the wood panelled wall. There are dampness stains creeping in from the corners. Nothing is as strong as it seems. “It’s not even really anything to do with us.”

He turns to her, she can feel the burn of his eyes on her skin. “Then why are you crying?”

Is she? She didn’t notice. But yes, he’s right. There are tears running from her eyes, slowly enough that she hasn’t noticed. She notices now. They sting her eyes, her throat, but the pain is nothing, not really.

“I’m not,” she says, needing to just be able to disagree with him on _something,_ cling to solid, familiar ground. It just makes her seem silly, though, she realises that after the words are already out. Her bottom lip begins to quiver.

Jemma turns to look at Fitz and the sight of his face, so pale, so _young,_ makes her burst into proper, ugly tears.

“Oh, Jemma,” he says, in that soft, quiet way and extends an arm. She falls against his shoulder, taking a moment to notice how he doesn’t even budge at the force she exerts on him. Solid, dependable. Fitz. His arm closes around her. It makes her cry harder.

There’s really no reason for her to still be upset over this; Agent Levinson was killed five days ago, and it had already been two when they were told. There had been tears then; only a few, quiet ones in the dark alone of her room. It’s been playing on her mind, more than just the fact of never seeing one of her favourite teachers again. The fact that this is the real world, a spy agency, where people can just suddenly be killed because they know strings of numbers in their heads.

It was truly just a careless comment, not particularly callous or insensitive; made by somebody who only knew of Agent Levinson because they had a few mandatory xenology classes on their timetable. Jemma knows she’s being silly, being childish at having left. Even still, at this moment, she can’t face going back downstairs to finish the project with them.

 “I suppose this is one thing I was a bit unprepared for,” she sniffles, and her head moves up and down as Fitz gives a humourless laugh.

“Don’t think anyone is ever prepared for death.”

“We should have expected something like this would happen, shouldn’t we? I mean, this is SHIELD after all. Agents get k-killed. It’s what happens.”

She might be imagining it, or maybe his arm really does pull him closer to her ever so slightly.

“Yeah,” he says softly, she almost has to strain to hear him. “But we’re meant to be the good guys, you know? We’re always meant to win.”

A childish notion, one from films and television shows, but one that she’s somehow always believed up until now.

This stairwell is so quiet. Someone opens a door above them and noise floods in from the group study area. Jemma moves her head closer into Fitz, shielding her ears. She focuses on his breathing, steady and familiar until the noise recedes once more.

“This shouldn’t be a surprise,” she murmurs, unable to get over her own reaction, her own ill-preparedness for this situation.

“I suppose we always just assume it’ll be operations,” Fitz murmurs above her. “They’re the ones who’re always fighting and stuff. They’re trained for it. We’re not meant to be in the field.”

Jemma disengages herself from Fitz, pulls back enough to see his face. Imagining this man, though really still a boy, in the field, being interrogated for his intelligent mind… it’s more than she can stomach, and she has to look away from him for a minute.

“Are you saying scientists can’t be in the field?” She asks him, looking back at the panelled wall ahead. It’s much easier this way, to say things, but she misses his arm around her.

He sighs. “Think about it. We’re not trained for that. We’re trained to work in labs and build machines. We’re not trained to deal with psychos who want to extract information from our bloody minds.”

His voice has risen in volume but Jemma knows he’s not angry, just scared. Agent Levinson worked in labs her whole life, never ventured into the field and yet now she’s dead and her name sits on the wall of valour, commending her for her bravery.

“I want to see the world, Fitz. I want to help all over the world.”

“We can do that from a lab, Simmons. We can help the whole world from SciOps.”

She doesn’t tell him that what happened to her teacher is perhaps her greatest fear of all. That she’ll die having done nothing, gone nowhere and the badge that sits on the wall will be a lie

This is a conversation for another time, another place; Jemma doesn’t want to have it now. “Okay,” she tells him, and moves her head back to the crook of his neck. The safest place in the world. As long as he’s with her, she supposes, then everything’s got to be fine. “SciOps.”

It’s the plan, anyway. And she’s always been fond of sticking to a plan.

“We should probably go back down,” she says.

Fitz hums. “Probably.”

Unable to tell if he’s being funny or not, she twists upwards to look at him. There are no traces of laughter on his face. “They’ll be wondering where we are.”

He swallows. “I imagine they will be.”

But he makes no move to get up and instead his arm comes back around her shoulders. His head rests against hers. She doesn’t feel happy, not quite, but stronger.

They sit like this for a while, tucked against each other in the back hallway of a library, almost as if they don’t move, don’t acknowledge that it exists, then the outside world can’t touch them. That if they only keep on holding each other, then everything will be alright.


End file.
